


si vis amari ama

by humanveil



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Banter, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, PTSD, Post-Second War with Voldemort, Romance, Slow Burn, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2019-02-24 14:49:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13216086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/humanveil/pseuds/humanveil
Summary: si vis amari ama: (phr.) Latin. “If you want to be loved,love.”As the dust of the war settles, the would-be class of ‘98 returns to Hogwarts for an eighth year.





	si vis amari ama

**Author's Note:**

> _Finally_ this is finished. It’s hardly the best thing I’ve ever written (especially the beginning), but if I didn’t get it up today, it and my laptop were being thrown out the window. I’ve been working on it on and off since March and don’t want to look at it any longer. 
> 
> Special shout out to [cutepoison](http://archiveofourown.org/users/cutepoison). This was mostly inspired by his love for Remus and my desire to work him into a snaco fic. 
> 
> **Clarifications:** (1). Remus’ involvement is in no way sexual. His friendship (I use the term loosely) is just prominent enough that I think it warrants a tag. (2). The PTSD tag refers mostly to Draco, and manifests in nightmares, mood/attitude, and general post-war angst. It’s only semi explicit. 
> 
> Okay, enough rambling. Enjoy!

**september.**

Severus listens idly as Minerva addresses the students at large, her voice loud and imposing as it carries through the Great Hall. He hears her mention the war, the impact it’s had on the students, the schooling arrangements. Hears her talk of unity and strength, of the importance of rebuilding.

It’s a load of nonsense, he thinks. He knows the effects of war, has lived them first hand once already. Unity is the last thing that will happen.

His gaze drifts from each house table, starting at the sea of red and gold before settling on the rows of green and silver, the House of Slytherin once again his responsibility. The group is noticeably smaller than the rest, the older students sparse, and Severus chooses not to fixate on the reasons why.

He looks to the five eighth years gathered at the end of the house table, his eyes lingering on Draco’s thin form longer than the rest. He’d been surprised to see him back—knows he’d had doubts about returning—but it is a welcome sight. He wouldn’t have been the only student to opt out of the opportunity for an eighth year, but Severus had hoped he wouldn’t. Lucius is still on trial, Malfoy Manor still under investigation, and Severus knows just how savage the Ministry can be. It’s better for Draco, he thinks, to be away from it all.

Beside him, Minerva concludes her speech, the murmur of applause pulling him from his musings. The trays before them fill with food before Minerva can so much as take her seat, and Severus eyes the contents of each plate. Everything is cooked to perfection, just as it normally is, but he doesn’t move to take anything.

“You really ought to eat, Severus,” says an annoyingly familiar voice from the left of him, the words followed by the clatter of cutlery against a plate. “You’re looking rather thin.”

Severus scowls, turns to to look at Lupin. He opens his mouth, scathing words on the tip of his tongue, but he’s cut off before he gets the chance to say anything.

“He’s right, you know,” says Minerva from his right. “Try the chicken.”

Severus’ eyes flutter shut for a fleeting second, a long, soft sigh escaping past his lips. As he moves to reach for a bread roll, he wonders why he ever agreed to come back.

-

The group of eighth years is small, barely a handful from each house returning for a second chance at their NEWTs. They fit into one class, which works well with the overcrowded schedule, but holds little benefit beyond that.   

Draco stands a little off from the main group, quiet while they chatter amongst themselves, their voices filling the corridor with a low murmur. He leans against the stone wall, only half listening to the conversation Blaise and Daphne are having—something about the class being pointless, now.

They wait outside the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom, the subject once again being taught by Lupin. He appears at the door as the clock strikes nine, pulls it open for them to enter, and as he does, Draco beelines for the back row. He takes the seat nearest to the door, thankful when the only person to approach him is Theo.

Lupin welcomes them back with a smile, his face lined with exhaustion but still as friendly as it had been back in third year. He starts off by trying to figure out what they already know and what they need to be taught, and Draco sits back, lets the others do the talking. He can’t just say what he knows—doesn’t want to talk about the Dark Lord’s training; doesn’t want them to know just how familiar he is with the Dark Arts. So he stays silent, listens to the tedious recounts of their previous years, and eventually allows himself to zone out.  

When they’re dismissed, he’s the first to leave the room.

-

Keeping to himself, speaking only when spoken to, leaving class the second he can. It becomes a routine.

It isn’t that Draco is scared, as some have started to say, it’s that he simply doesn’t have the energy. He won’t back down from a fight when it presents itself—is seemingly incapable of keeping his mouth shut when his family name is brought into it—but he has mellowed, somewhat. Would much rather be left alone.

The only exception is when they make their way down to the dungeons.

The group is even smaller here, not everyone wanting to spend their time in the lab with Snape. When the door bangs open, Draco moves to the front of the room and takes a seat just to the left, partnering up with Theo while the others keep to the back rows. Blaise and Daphne take the row beside them, Millicent hanging off to the side, and Draco would laugh, really, if it weren’t so bloody predictable.

Snape is as much of a bastard as he’s ever been. He remains unbothered by the students’ mixed opinions of him, acts just as he had every other lesson they’ve ever shared. There is still an obvious favour towards Slytherin, still a sneer and derisive remark ready for every minor inconvenience made by a Gryffindor; still no patience for petty arguments or any sign of incompetence. 

It is a comfort, for Draco, to have something feel so familiar.

It helps him relax.

-

When Remus had dared to hope, when he’d dared to envision a future, to think of an _after_ , teaching had not been something he’d considered. He hadn’t thought it an option, but when Minerva had offered him Head of Gryffindor, when she’d asked him to come back, to be someone the students could turn to, he hadn’t been able to decline. The war is still fresh in everyone’s memories, too many still suffering in the aftermath, and Remus knows how important it is to have the right resources available—knows just what can happen when they aren’t. 

He enjoys being around Harry, too, even if he does miss Teddy. He likes being able to keep an eye on him, to see how he’s integrating back into a relatively normal life. Remus knows it can’t be easy, knows how hard it is for Harry to suddenly find himself without the pressure of Voldemort on his shoulders. It’s a good thing, definitely, but still difficult to get used to.

And Harry isn’t the only one facing such difficulty. Remus knows because he studies his students, makes mental lists about them. He catalogues behaviour, keeps his eyes open for anything that may raise concern. There are a handful of students who have already gained his attention, mostly those in their later years. Some, like Harry, he’d expected. Others, like Draco Malfoy, he had not.

He supposes he should have seen it coming—and maybe he had, in a way—but he hadn’t thought it would ever be as obvious as it is. He watches Draco when the other isn’t looking, peers at him in class and ponders his behaviour.

It’s different from what Remus remembers. Not strange, exactly, but different enough for Remus to notice. Draco had never been outright disruptive in class, but he had been louder. Prouder. In the weeks where he’s been watching, Remus can hardly recognise the arrogant third year he’d once known.

It’s a cause for concern.

-

A knock comes, the dull thud carrying through Severus’ office. He sighs at the sound, too tired to want to deal with other people, but still, he stands. There’s the chance it’s another one of his Slytherins coming to him for help—sleeping potions, minor healing potions, things they’re too ashamed to go to the Hospital Wing for—so he can’t ignore it.

Unfortunately for him, it’s only Lupin.

“Hello,” says Remus, smiling despite the scowl on Snape’s face. “Fancy a chat?”

“It’s half past nine,” Severus says, not letting him through.

“And you’re still dressed in your teaching robes, so I assume you weren’t sleeping,” Remus says. He smiles for a moment more before his face grows serious. “Please, Severus. I’m concerned about one of your Slytherins.”

That seems to do the trick.

Snape lets him in before moving back to his desk. He doesn’t offer him anything as he sits, no tea, no refreshments, just asks: “Who?”

It’s more or less what Remus had expected, so he sits across from him without fuss and sighs. “Draco Malfoy.”

Snape doesn’t look surprised. “Why?”

“He doesn’t speak to anyone,” Remus starts, crossing one leg over the other and lacing his fingers together over his knee. “Doesn’t speak at all, actually. Not unless he’s called upon. Barely even reacts when people try to rile him up. He’s been perfectly well behaved.”

Severus raises his brow at him. “I recall you complaining about the opposite just five years ago.”

“But that’s exactly it. It’s not his normal behaviour,” Remus tells him. And then, as an afterthought, “I don’t even think he has friends. I always see him alone.”

“Most of his old friends are either dead or imprisoned,” Severus states, voice monotone. “I’m sure you know what that’s like.”

Remus clenches his jaw, pushes away memories of old friends and dead loved ones. “I do,” he says, and his voice doesn’t shake. “Just as you do. And I think we both know what Draco is doing isn’t healthy.”

Snape sighs and leans back in his chair. “The war has changed him,” he says softly. “It changed all of them, but Draco especially. I was witness to most of what he endured, it’s no surprise he’s like this now.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s okay.”

Snape looks at him. “What would you have me do?”

“Be his friend.”

“He’s my student.”

“And what does that matter?” Remus asks. “He’s an adult. And you just said you share similar experiences. It could be good for him.” And then, green eyes staring into black, Remus adds, “And you.”

“Lupin—”

“At least talk to him,” Remus sighs. “Others have similar concerns, but I highly doubt he’ll listen to us if we try. It has to be you.”

Resisting the urge to sigh again, Snape concedes. “Fine,” he says. “But I doubt it will help.”

Remus smiles at him. “All the same, Severus. Thank you.”

Snape doesn’t respond as Lupin leaves the room.

-

The following day, Severus makes time to talk to Draco.

He uses his one free period, checks his spare copy of the student schedules, and finds him outside in one of the greenhouses. Draco stands to the back of the students, a bored look on his face while Professor Sprout explains the plant in her hand.

Snape knocks once against the frame, drawing the room’s attention to him. Professor Sprout calls her greeting from the front of the room, and Severus nods in silent acknowledgement before locking eyes with Draco.

“May I borrow Mr. Malfoy?” he asks, not missing the look of relief laced confusion that falls across Draco’s face.

Professor Sprout nods, and Draco immediately packs his belongings back into his satchel. Placing the strap over his shoulder, he’s at Severus’ side in an instant, Professor Sprout’s voice fading in the background as they walk away.

Severus remains silent as they move from the greenhouse. Draco follows obediently, brow furrowing slightly as he’s lead away from the castle and further into the grounds.

“Professor?” he inquires, looking up to Snape for an explanation.

“I need something from the gardens,” Severus says by way of explanation. “Dahlia flower heads. They usually grow near the Forest.”

“You pulled me out of class to pick flowers?”

Snape’s lips twitch. “No, but we may as well do something useful.”

Draco nods slowly, waits a moment before asking, “Why did you pull me out, then?”

“There are concerns,” Snape says, stopping suddenly. Draco stops too, eyeing the bush around them—green leaf scattered with vibrant yellow. Severus reaches a hand out to tear a dahlia away, examining the stem. “Here will do.”

Draco watches as the older man pulls something from his robe and places the tip of his wand to it. He murmurs a quiet spell—the item growing into a decent sized basket—before dropping it to the floor and looking back to Draco. “You’re not required to help,” he says. “But if you do, pull each one from the bottom of their stem.”

Draco watches him do just that, dropping the plant into the basket. He slips his bag from his shoulder, rests it on the floor between them, and moves closer to the bush. “What kind of concerns?” he asks, pulling at the root of the plant. “I don’t think I’ve done anything.”

“You haven’t. That’s the issue.”

“I don’t understand.”

Severus sighs. “Lupin worries that you’re acting differently,” he says. “He believes you’re shutting yourself off from others.”

He says it in a matter-of-fact way. Severus isn’t that person—he’s never been the type to ease students into issues with considerate language and unneeded puffery. He thinks the best way to do it is head on, with no room for misunderstanding.

“Shutting myself off from others,” Draco repeats slowly. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means he hasn’t seen you talk to anyone.”

“So?”

“So it makes him think you’re experiencing some issues,” Snape says sharply. He drops a handful of flowers into the basket, turns his head to look Draco in the eye. “Are you?”

“Lupin’s delusional,” Draco says, but Severus can see the nervous swallow. The way Draco doesn’t return his gaze. “Ask anyone else, I’m fine.”

“He’s not the only one concerned.” Lupin had mentioned it over breakfast that morning, and Severus had been surprised to learn that both Minerva and Aurora had similar thoughts on the matter. “It’s come to my attention that you behave very differently outside of my classroom.”

Draco pauses his movement, head tilted to look at Severus. “Most of my friends aren’t here,” he says, and doesn’t bother explaining why. He knows Severus knows. “And even if they were, I didn’t come back to play socialite. I just want to finish my schooling and leave.”

“I know.”

“Besides,” Draco continues, voice quieting. “It’s not like anyone wants to be around me.”

“The others are giving you trouble,” Snape says. It’s not a question. “What are they saying?”

Draco looks away, pulls a dahlia from the bush harsher than necessary. “Nothing.”

“Draco.”

“It’s nothing,” he huffs, louder. “They say things about you, too.”

“Which is expected.”

“And you don’t care about that, so why care if they talk about me?”

“I don’t,” Severus tells him. “I care how you handle it.”

Draco sighs and keeps his eyes on the bush. He doesn’t say anything for a moment, just lets the time pass with the rustle of leaves and the snap of a stem. And then, “They make comments about me being a Death Eater.”

Severus watches him, notes the flash of anger in his eyes, the clenched jaw. It’s easy to read between the lines.

“About your family,” he says, and he knows he’s right.

“Yes.”

Severus drops another handful of dahlias into the basket, contemplating. He can imagine the things people are saying—had heard it all the last time round, had had similar sentiments thrown his way—and he knows Draco, knows Lucius and Narcissa, too. Knows that family, the Malfoy name and everything it encompasses, is more important to them than anything.

There are a number of things he can say. He can tell Draco to ignore it, that their opinions don’t matter, but Draco isn’t a child. He already knows the standard responses, will likely only scoff if Severus were to repeat them now.

So instead, he asks, “How’s your father’s trial?”

The change of topic is less than subtle, but Draco doesn’t seem to mind. He sighs, the tension draining from his body. “There’s another hearing next week. Mother says he should be home by the holidays,” he tells Severus. “I don’t think they care what happens to him, they just want the money.”

Severus snorts. It’s understandable, really. The damage cost of the war was high, why not take what you know you can get?

“Will you return home for winter break?”

“I don’t know,” Draco admits. “I don’t really want to stay here, but…”

But the Manor is still being torn apart by the Ministry, even months after the last of the Death Eaters had been rounded up. Even with Narcissa staying at another property, ministry officials would likely be watching their every move, especially if Lucius is let free. Severus can hardly blame him for not wanting to go back.

“I’ll be here.” He’s not sure what compels him to say it, not sure if it’s an invitation or a simple statement of fact. There is still work that needs to be done to the castle, and Severus has already been forcefully added to the list of people overlooking the last reparations.

Draco turns back to him, mouth quirked. “Are you suggesting I stay with you?”

“I’m saying you have an option of company shall you choose to remain.”

Draco hums and drops a handful of stems into the basket. “You seemed sick of me by the end of the war.”

“Not sick,” says Severus. “You were merely making things more difficult than they needed to be.”

“You were my protection. I’d have been an idiot if I didn’t take advantage of it.”

Severus sends him a look, as if to say _you were still an idiot_ , and Draco rolls his eyes, mouth twitching almost as if to laugh.

“People will talk,” he says, “if they see me with you. They’ll think we’re up to something.”

“Don’t they already?” Even if it doesn’t bother him, Severus has heard things. He knows not everyone agrees with Minerva’s decision to allow him and a handful of students to come back, not after the role they’d played in the war. “Besides, if you don’t talk to me, Lupin will be pulling you out of class next.”

Draco grimaces. As much as he appreciates Lupin’s teaching method—the way he doesn’t tolerate the comments thrown Draco’s way, the opinions on where he should _really_ be—he doesn’t fancy the idea of him asking about his wellbeing. He’s seen Lupin do it to others, has seen the kind face, has heard the way he gentles his voice. He can imagine how awkward it would be, how uncomfortable. The nice approach, the sympathy… Draco simply isn’t used to it.

“I think I’ll stick with you,” he says, and Severus smiles faintly.

 

 

**october.**

_Screaming._

_The pained kind. The harrowing kind. The kind that rings in your ears, vibrates through your chest, echoes in your skull. The kind you can’t block out, no matter what you do. No matter how hard you try._

_He can’t stop it, can’t tell where it’s coming from, if it’s his or someone else’s. If whatever’s happening is being done to him or if he’s the one doing it._

_His body thrashes, his eyes squeezed shut. The screams are loud, too loud. Overwhelming. He can’t get away from it, but he tries. Tries to figure his way out of the dark, away from images of cloaked figures, of blood and broken bodies and the pungent stench of death. Tries to get away from the cries, from the pain, from the reminder of just how cruel humanity can be._

_No use. It follows him, clings to him. Stays with him until panic creeps its way up his throat, until he can’t breathe properly. Until his eyes sting with unshed tears, until his body shakes with frustration, until, until..._

Draco wakes with a sudden movement, body thrashing up and out of bed. His breath is short, too short; his chest rising and falling with quick, panicked puffs. His body shakes, his knees almost too weak to keep him standing. He reaches out, places both hands flat on his mattress, and lets himself sink to the ground. Let’s his forehead rest against familiar sheets, keeps his eyes focused on the dorm room, on the bed he’s had for years. Tries to remind himself where he is, that he’s safe.

It doesn’t work.

His cheeks are damp, his throat tight. He can hear his own breathing, too loud, too irregular. Bordering on sobs. He needs something, knows he won’t be able to calm down on his own.

The decision to leave is an impulsive one. He wraps a cloak around him, grabs his wand, and stumbles through the dorm room, down into the common room, out into the hallway. He doesn’t look back. He’s likely woken people up, he thinks, and he has no desire to see the looks on their faces—to answer their questions, to hear their pity, their sympathy, fake or genuine.

It’s easy to make his way through the dark. After more than seven years, he knows the dungeons just as well as he knows the Manor. He doesn’t bother with a lumos charm, would rather not gain attention from the portraits. Faint candle light and muscle memory will do.

He bangs against the wall that conceals Severus’ private rooms and doesn’t bother stopping to think about what he’s doing. The man had offered his assistance, had he not? And Draco needs it, desperately. His body is still shaking, his head pounding. He still can’t breathe properly.

He steps back when the crack appears, the stone parting to reveal a door. Severus stands on the other side, face lined with exhaustion, a night robe pulled around his body. He only needs to take one look at Draco before he pushes the door open wider and lets him through.

Draco doesn’t have to explain, doesn’t have to choke the words out. Severus leads him through his private sitting room and into his bedroom. He points to the bed, the covers pulled back from when he’d woken. “Sit,” he says, and Draco does.

He sits on the edge of the mattress, watches as Severus rummages through a draw. It’s only a moment before he turns back, a small vial held in one hand. It contains some kind of light blue liquid, the substance shimmering in the low light of the room. Severus uncorks it before holding it out for Draco to take.

“Drink.”

Draco doesn’t bother asking what it is, despite being taught to always do so. He doesn’t think Severus would hurt him, but even if he would, he’s in no state to fight back.

He downs the vial, grimaces as the liquid slides across his tongue. It tastes disgusting, but the effect is almost immediate. Draco can feel his body calm, his breathing regulate. The panic is fading, slowly but steadily, the fear right alongside it. He takes a deep breath, exhales shakily.

“Sorry,” he says, barely audible.

“Don’t be.”

Severus has turned back to his draw, already sorting through another set of vials. Draco watches, the potion clearing his head. He grimaces when he realises exactly what he’s done. It has to be well past midnight—three or four, at least—and Severus had obviously been asleep. Draco can’t imagine he’s happy to have been woken.

“I didn’t mean to bother you,” he starts, but quiets when Severus sighs.

Severus turns back to him, another vial held in hand. “You are my responsibility, Draco,” he says. “I told you to come to me if you need to. It isn’t an offer extended out of obligation, I expect you to do it.”

Draco opens his mouth but shuts it again when he has nothing to say. He knows Severus is right, knows that he really wouldn’t offer help if he didn’t intend to give it, but he still feels guilty, almost. Embarrassed. Ashamed.

“Here,” Severus says, and Draco takes the offered vial. He squints at the label, not recognising the name. “It will help you sleep,” Severus explains, and Draco doesn’t need more of an incentive to take it. He tightens his hold, stands to leave, but stops when a hand settles on his shoulder. “Stay.”

Draco looks up at him, brow raised. “What?”

“The potion is a strong one,” Severus says. “You’ll be out for half the day. I’d rather you be somewhere I can check on you.”

“I have class.”

“I’ll excuse you.”

Draco laughs quietly, the sound barely a puff of air. It’s odd, for Snape to be this nice, this helpful; especially after the past year. But even if he hadn’t expected it, Draco is hardly going to argue. “Fine,” he says.

Severus nudges him back down, tilts his head toward the vial. “I’ll see you when you wake,” he says, and Draco nods, watches as he leaves the room.

Once alone, Draco uncorks the vial and swallows the potion. It’s nicer tasting than the other one, a dark green liquid that contains traces of mint. He wipes his mouth once it’s finished, puts the empty jar on the nightstand, and removes his outer cloak before easing down onto the bed.

It feels strange, to be there, to not be in the dorm—feels odd knowing that Severus is letting him stay. He knows Snape is a good Head of House, knows most of Slytherin rely on him for help more than they do any other staff member, but this seems different, somehow; like it’s not a common occurrence.  

Draco, too tired to truly care, pushes the thoughts away, settles down under the covers. The bed is surprisingly comfortable—a soft mattress and smooth sheets, warm from Severus’ body. Combined with the potion, it’s impossible to stay awake.

He doesn’t bother trying to fight the tug of unconsciousness, just pulls the blanket around himself and drifts into a welcome, dreamless sleep.

-

When he wakes, it’s to the sound of a door opening, to the quiet tread of feet. He groans and buries his face back in the pillow, his arms clutching at the bedcover. He’s still so tired, his body still heavy, like it’s ready to roll over and sleep for another fifteen years.

“Feeling better, then,” comes a voice, and Draco wants to groan again.

He sits up, blinks his eyes open to look at Severus. “How long was I out for?”

“Close to ten hours,” Severus tells him. “Your classmates are at lunch, now.”

Draco looks at him like he’s grown a second head. He can’t remember the last time he’d slept for five hours, let alone ten. There’s a voice in the back of his head that reminds him of medicine induced sleep, of the hours spent unconscious after being tortured, but he pushes it away. Doesn’t want to think about it.

“And you just… let me?”

“You needed it.”

Draco can’t really argue with that. He’s seen himself in the mirror, seen the dark circles, the gaunt look to his face. It’s reminiscent of his six year, only now he knows how to hide it better. “Right,” he says, almost awkwardly.

He glances around the room, notes the simple, sleek furniture. The bookcase, the fireplace, the items that litter the surfaces; the things that make the room look surprisingly lived in. He knows it’s dumb to think it wouldn’t be, but he hadn’t expected something so… casual. He shifts on the bed, pushes the covers off his body slowly.

“I should go.” Better to do it while everyone’s at lunch, Draco thinks. He can’t imagine what people would say if he they saw him walk the corridors like this, still dressed in nightclothes, still barefoot. “Thank you for…” he waves his hand at the bed, leaves the sentence unfinished.

Severus, thankfully, understands what he’s trying to say. “Tell me if it happens again,” he says as Draco nears the door. “I can assure you, I’m more equipped to deal with it than you are.”

Draco offers a smile that doesn’t look the least bit happy. “You’d see me every night if I came to you each time.”

“You wouldn’t be the only one,” Severus tells him, and it’s sad how true it is. Slytherin has always been a more difficult bunch to manage, but the increase in calls for help has not gone unnoticed. “I can’t give you something each time, but there are resources available.”

The downfall of sleeping potions, really. There’s yet to be one invented that doesn’t hold the potential for disaster, addiction, or, in extreme cases, death.

Draco hums from his spot in the doorway. ”And do the others get to sleep in your bed, too?”

Severus looks at him in slight surprise, his lips twitching like they aren’t sure if he should laugh or frown. _“That_ is a fortune reserved only for you, Mr. Malfoy,” he replies eventually. 

Draco grins, a quick flash of bright white teeth. He’s happier about that than he thought he would be—than he probably should be.

“I’ll see you in class, Professor,” he says, finally walking from the room.

 

 

**november.**

In his sixth year, when he’d wanted to get away from the stress of the Dark Lord’s task, Draco had found solace outside. He’d enjoyed the sense of freedom, the open space—had found a small opening in the Forest, close enough to the grounds that he hadn’t had to worry about wild creatures, and had spent as much time there as he possibly could. Its high bushes and vibrant flowers are reminiscent of the Manor’s gardens in bloom, and he’d enjoyed the reminder of home.

He does the same thing now. He knows he probably shouldn’t—it’s too cold, too wet—but he does it anyway. He can keep himself warm with a few charms, can protect himself from the rain with another; and even if he couldn’t, it’s little more than a drizzle. A little water is worth the clear head his spot of solitary gives him.

Only, when he gets there, he’s not alone.

“What are you doing here?”

Astoria looks up at him from where she lies on her back, brown locks spread out around her head, the Ravenclaw tie bunched up under her chin. She’s got a grin on her face, her wand held loosely in one hand. There’s a protective arch around her, a pale white glow that blocks the rain from hitting her body. “Hello to you, too.”

Draco stands over her and repeats his original question. It comes out a little harsher this time round, but Draco doesn’t care. As much as he likes Astoria—as close as they’d grown over the past year—he isn’t in the mood to be around other people.

“I wanted to talk,” Astoria says. “Couldn’t find you so I came here. Knew you’d show up eventually.”

Draco sighs but sits down next to her, making sure her spell covers him, too. “Talk about what?”

Astoria takes a deep breath, says, “Daphne said that Blaise said that Theo said that he thought he heard you crying in the bathroom the other night, and since none of them ever learnt how to handle emotions, I’ve been asked to deal with you.”

Draco wants to groan, wants to roll his eyes and tell her to piss off. He doesn’t, though—knows she’d probably just laugh at him if he did. “You’re really going to believe information that’s been passed through that string of people?”

Astoria snorts softly. “Fair point. But they seem worried, and you have been kind of weird lately,” she says. “So, spill. You okay?”

“Why is everyone so concerned?”

“Everyone?”

“Snape pulled me out of class last month to ask how I was doing. Says it was Lupin’s idea.”

He doesn’t mention the other times since then, doesn’t tell her how Severus will sometimes visit the common room and make a habit of checking on him, doesn’t tell her how he’d spent a night in his room. It sounds ridiculous, but he wants to keep the meetings to himself—wants them to be something only he and Severus share.

Astoria pulls a face. “I can’t picture that,” she says eventually. “Snape caring about anyone just seems weird.”

“He’s not as heartless as he looks.”

“Well, apparently you would know,” Astoria says, poking him in the side. “But don’t change the subject. How have you been?”

“Dandy,” Draco deadpans. “Best I’ve ever felt.”

Astoria sends him a glare, the one he knows means _don’t bullshit me_ ; the one that reminds him far too much of his mother. “Were you crying or not?”

“Happy tears,” he says, because he doesn’t care if he annoys her. “I thought of a world where you left me alone and couldn’t keep them in.”

“You always say the sweetest things,” Astoria bites back, not missing a beat. “So what’s wrong?”

Draco sighs softly, resigning to the fact that he won’t be able to evade the conversation. “I don’t want to talk about it,” he tells her.

“I’m worried about you.”

“Don’t be,” Draco says. “I’m fine. Promise.”

It’s a lie and they both know it, but Draco’s never been very good at discussing his feelings, and definitely not in the open way Astoria prefers. Besides, he really does think he’s doing better—the nightmares were starting to ease, at least. There had only been a few bad ones in the past weeks—and  _of course_  Theo had had to hear the aftermath of one of those—but he knows he’s improving. He doesn’t need help. 

“That’s bullshit,” Astoria retorts. “But fine. You win. We’ll just sit here in silence.”

“You could go back inside.”

“No.”

Draco laughs quietly, the sound one of fond exasperation. He moves against the grass and shifts until he’s lying beside Astoria. “I hate you,” he says.

Astoria grins, her hand reaching out to take hold of his. “I know.”

 

 

**december.**

“How’s Mr. Malfoy?”

“Fine.”

Remus hums, a smile on his face as he looks at Severus. “He’s looking better. Mostly.”

Severus doesn’t respond. There’s a stack of essays he needs to mark on his desk, and he takes one, makes himself look busy in the hope Lupin will leave.

“He talks to his housemates more,” Lupin continues. Severus can feel his gaze on him, but he still doesn’t look up. “And the two of you seem to be spending a lot of time together.”

“Get to the point,” Severus snaps, sighing when Remus takes it as an invitation to sit down.

“According to Hermione, some students think that there’s, ah—” he clears his throat, bites back a smirk. “More than talking going on.”

Snape breathes through his nose, nostrils flaring, and looks up to glare at Remus’ mirthful face. “Get out.”

“Sounds like I’ve touched on something.”

“Don’t you have a child to go and floo?”

“Andromeda brought him by for lunch, actually,” Remus recalls. It had been nice to hold Teddy again, to play with him. As much as he understands why Minerva had needed him to come back—understands how difficult it had been to recruit a complete staff—he misses Teddy dearly. Fire-calls and weekend trips home could only do so much. “I’m just saying, Severus, if—”

He’s cut off by the sound of footfalls outside Snape’s office, a third figure making their way towards them.

“Hey, are you still— _oh_.” Draco stands in the open doorway of Severus’ office, a letter held in one hand and a small frown on his face. “Professor,” he says slowly, awkwardly. He looks from Remus to Severus, asks, “Am I interrupting?”

“Lupin was just leaving,” Severus tells him, sending a pointed look to Remus.

Remus stands up to leave even if he had been in the middle of a sentence. Their conversation can always be resumed at a later date, after all. “He’s right, I really ought to be going.” He nods at Draco when he passes him and turns to look at the both of them, his eyes twinkling still with humour. “Good evening.”

Draco offers a quiet, hesitant goodbye and waits until Remus is out of sight before entering the room and shutting the door behind him.

“What’s wrong?” Snape asks, watching from behind his desk as Draco takes the newly vacated seat. He puts the essay he’d been pretending to read back on its pile and leans against the back of his chair, waiting for Draco to speak.

“Nothing,” Draco says. “Not really, just—” He slides the letter in his hand towards Severus, his bottom lip caught between his teeth. “It’s from my mother. There’s been a holdup with the trial. Outrage that he could be let out so early, or something,” he explains, and Severus can hear the underlying sadness. Knows that Draco misses Lucius, even if he won’t say it outright. “Everything’s been pushed back, so Mother said it’s best to stay here over the break.”

Severus scans the letter, almost amused at how nice Narcissa sounds when writing Draco. “And?”

“And I wanted to know if you were still staying.”

“I am.” He passes the letter back to Draco, peers at him curiously. “You came here just to ask that?”

“No,” Draco admits. “I was going to ask for your help.”

“With?”

Draco fumbles with his satchel, slipping the letter into the front pocket before pulling out a thick book. “How good are you at transfiguration?” he asks, and Severus sighs.

He can tell it’s going to be a long night.

-

Christmas break comes, and Remus spends the first day outside, uses the holidays to take advantage of the lack of students lingering around, the rare chance of privacy. He would much rather return home, would prefer to be with Teddy, but the full moon falls on the second day of break, and Remus knows the transition is much easier at Hogwarts than home. Knows that, as accepting as Andromeda has been of his condition, she wouldn’t know what to do.

So he stays, spends his spare time marking essays and walking the grounds, and counts down the few extra days that separate him from his son.

He goes to Severus the following morning for his potion, and has to mask his surprise when it’s Draco who opens the door. From what Remus can see, he’s dressed in night clothes, his body mostly covered by a loose robe that looks much too big for him. His eyes are red-rimmed, his face lined with exhaustion, and when he greets Remus, his tone is flat.

“I’m still making it,” calls Severus from inside the office. “You should have waited longer.”

Draco turns away from him and moves back to where he’d previously been sitting. Remus enters slowly, almost awkwardly. He lets the door shut behind him, walks up to where Severus is working. There’s a large cauldron sitting atop the workbench, the space around it littered with various vials and jars.

“How much longer?”

“Fifteen minutes,” Severus says, the words accompanied by a sizzling sound as he drops an ingredient inside the cauldron. “Maybe ten.”

Remus glances back towards Draco and finds him slouched in Severus’ usual chair. He’s got a foot resting on the seat’s edge, one knee bent to his chest, and a mug held in both hands. The desk in front of him has a teapot resting on top of it and a plate of untouched food beside that. “Should I come back later?” Remus asks, turning back to Severus.

Snape sighs and sprinkles a pinch of powder into the cauldron. “It’s easier to wait.”

Remus nods, makes sure his voice is lowered when he asks, “Is he okay?”

“He’s fine.”

“You sound defensive.”

“He’s not your problem.”

“Did something happen?”

“No.”

“Sever—”

“You realise I’m in the room, don’t you?” Draco’s voice interrupts, and when Remus looks at him, he looks equal parts uncomfortable and amused. “I _can_ hear you.”

“Sorry,” Remus amends. “It looked like you weren’t in the mood to talk.”

“I’m not.” Draco gives him a blank stare, gaze flicking over his shoulder to look at Severus for a moment. “But he’s right,” he says. “Nothing’s wrong.”

He sounds convincing enough, so Remus gives up the struggle. If Draco is here, then it means he’s receiving some sort of assistance from Severus, and he supposes that will have to do.

He walks toward the desk, takes the seat adjacent to Draco. There are spare cups next to the teapot, and he takes one, pours himself a drink. He’s here for the next ten minutes, at least, and he thinks he might appreciate having something to do with his hands.

“Any plans for the holidays, Mr. Malfoy?” he asks, because he’d rather not endure an uncomfortable silence. He takes a sip of tea and looks towards Draco expectantly.

Draco still looks uncomfortable, like he wants to shrink away from him and the conversation, but he answers the question—humours Remus’ chatter until Severus is done with the potion. He talks more in fifteen minutes than he has in the last three weeks’ worth of class, and Remus suspects he’s right to think that Severus has a calming effect on Draco, something that helps bring out at least part of the personality Remus remembers.

“Here,” Snape says, placing a large vial in front of Lupin. “Take it and go.”

“Always so charming,” Remus murmurs, pleased when he catches Draco’s quick grin. He takes hold of the vial and stands, moves toward the door. “Until next time,” he calls out.

The door shuts behind him, leaving the room in silence. Draco leans forward in his chair, exhales quietly. “Well,” he starts, looks up at Severus. “I’m sure he thinks we’re sleeping together.”

Severus snorts; the sound exasperated, dismissive. “I don’t care what Lupin thinks,” he says, though after some of Lupin’s recent comments, he suspects there is a modicum truth to Draco’s words.

The speculation is ridiculous, really. Draco had come by the night before, distraught due to another nightmare. It was hardly the worst he’d ever had, but he was getting use to not having them, now, and the shock of it had enhanced the fear, had sent him knocking on Severus’ door a second time.

Draco hums quietly. “Still,” he says. “I think I’d prefer him thinking we’re conspiring together. Less awkward.”

“But still illegal,” Severus points out, taking Lupin’s vacated seat.

“All the fun things are,” Draco murmurs, trying not to smile when Severus sends him a look—the one he’s learnt means  _you sound far too much like your father._ He grabs another spare cup and holds it up for Severus to see. “Tea?”

Severus simply sighs.

-

Draco spends most of the holidays at Severus’ side, helping him replenish the Hospital Wing’s supply of healing potions and listening to recounts of the remaining Hogwarts reparations. Not many students and staff had stayed, most of them returning home to be with their loved ones—or, in some cases, assist the last of the trials—and Draco doesn’t fancy spending all of his time alone in the Slytherin common room.

Pansy and Astoria owl, and with a little convincing, Draco manages to get Severus to grant him the use of his fireplace so he can speak with his mother. Other than that, though, Severus is his only real company.

It’s nicer, Draco thinks, with less people. Quieter. Only a few older students had stayed, and the younger ones are still too frightened to say anything to him. It means he gets to walk the castle without stares and snide remarks following him wherever he goes.

Christmas comes, and Draco spends that in Severus’ quarters, too. They hadn’t discussed exact plans, but when Draco appears at his door early on Christmas morning, Severus doesn’t look surprised, just lets him in without comment.

Narcissa had sent a package—some rare books, a pair of shoes, a letter with an update of what was happening at home and a reminder that she loves him—and Draco had brought the books with him to Severus’ rooms. He scans one of them now, curled on a chair in front of the crackling fireplace and picking at the food they’d ordered a house elf to bring. Severus is next to him, sipping at tea and reading the paper, and Draco thinks it ought to feel weird to be this domestic, this casual, but it doesn’t.

It’s reminiscent of the summer after sixth year, of the few weeks they’d spent hiding together, only this time there isn’t any awkwardness, isn’t a sense of impending doom. There is only quiet compatibility.  

It’s easy, and Draco likes it.

 

 

**janurary.**

“ _Again_?”

Draco glances up at Theo as his essay settles on the stone bench, Snape’s imposing figure walking past their desk to give back the next set. “What?”

“Your mark,” Theo clarifies, head nodding towards the bright red _O_ on Draco’s assessment.

“What about it?”

“Always outstanding,” Theo says, looking back to his own paper marked with a big _A_. “Fuck me, if I’d known sleeping with him would get me better marks, I’d have tried it ages ago.”

Draco’s eyes widen, his head whipping around to look at Nott properly. “ _What?_ ”

“Come off it, Malfoy,” Theo says, looking at him like he doesn’t understand what the big deal is. “You and the Professor. Everyone’s speculating. I hear Ravenclaw has bets going.”

 _“What?”_ Draco asks again, and Theo looks at him with genuine surprise.

“There’ve been rumours since sixth year,” Theo tells him. “Maybe even fifth year. You really didn’t know?”

“No. Yes—I.” Draco cuts off with a groan. He’s heard people joke about it before, but to him that’s all it ever was—a joke. He’d never thought anyone actually believed it. “What do people say?”  

Theo shrugs. “The usual,” he says. “Sex in exchange for favours. I thought it was true.”

“It’s not.”

“You sure?” Theo asks, and he’s teasing now. “Because you do disap—”

“I’m not slee—” His quiet hiss is cut off yet again as Draco feels someone watching them. He turns to find Granger staring at them with a look of interest on her face, her expression one of guilt when Draco’s eyes lock with hers. Lip curling in a sneer, he turns back to face the front of the room. “I’m not having sex with anyone,” he says calmly, his voice low. “I’m just good in the lab.”

Theo snorts. “Is that what we’re calling it?”

“Oh, fuck off.”

“Relax, Draco,” Theo says, lips turned in a mirthful smirk. “We’re all going to need top marks to get any type of job after this mess. Shagging a decorated war hero isn’t the worst plan in the world.”

“Would you—” he stops again at the sound of footsteps approaching. From the corner of his eye, he sees Snape pass their row again, returning to the front of the room to begin their lesson. “Just shut up and pay attention,” Draco says quietly.

“‘Course,” Theo murmurs. “Wouldn’t want you to get spanked now, would w—”

The rest of his sentence is cut short as Draco elbows him in the side, eyes narrowed in a heated glare. A look of pain flashes across Theo’s face, but it’s replaced by laughter seconds later.

“Ooh, maybe you’d like th—”

“For fu—”

“Mr. Malfoy, Mr. Nott,” comes a quiet voice from the front. Draco swallows as he turns to meet Severus’ eye. “If you two are quite finished…”

“Yes, sir.”

“Sorry, Professor.”

“Very well,” Snape says. “As I was saying…”

As Severus resumes his soft monotone, Draco reaches for his quill to begin taking notes, his face pointed toward the desk to hide the pale blush that colours his cheeks. Next to him, Theo does the same, though a smirk remains planted on his face for the rest of the lesson.

-

The peace found in the winter break doesn’t last.

Draco hadn’t thought it would, not when the hold up with his father’s trial had put their names back in the paper, but he doesn’t quite expect it to end the way it does.

He’s turning into a deserted corridor, making his way to the library when a shoulder barges him, another set of hands pushing him back against the stone wall.

“What the fu—” His words are cut short as the tip of a wand presses harshly into his throat. He tries to reach for his own but feels a flicker of magic before he can, imaginary binds pinning him to the wall.

He looks around, takes note of the three figures in front of him. A Ravenclaw girl he doesn’t recognise is handling the wand at his throat, and behind her stands a boy he remembers from the Hufflepuff Quidditch team, another Ravenclaw boy from his own year standing to her other side.

“What the fuck do you want?” His words are harsh and tainted with disgust, his voice loud in the empty hall. The pressure of the wand increases, but Draco simply sneers back at the redheaded girl.

“Been near the bridge lately, Malfoy?” asks the girl, her tone of voice suggesting she doesn’t care for his answer. “A lot of ghosts around, these days.”

“Your point?” He tries to pull his arm free from its hold, but it doesn’t budge.

“Frederick’s little brother stays down there,” she says, and from the anger flashing in the Hufflepuff’s eyes, Draco assumes he must be Frederick. “Says your dear aunt killed him.”

Wonderful, Draco thinks. Fucking brilliant. Just what he needs. “What does that have to do with me?”

“We feel a little payback’s in order,” she says. “An eye for an eye, isn’t that how you lot think?”

“So, what—you’re going to kill me?” Draco asks. He’s mocking them, voice edging on a cruel laugh. He supposes he should be scared—he’s in Gryffindor territory, outnumbered three to one, and pinned to a wall in a deserted corridor—but he isn’t, not really. After the last three years, it’ll take more than a girl who’s barely finished her sixth year to scare him. “Hardly fair, don’t you think? I wasn’t the one who killed your boyfriend’s brother,” he sneers, and the girl’s eyes narrow, the boy behind her stepping forward as if to hit him.

And Draco thinks he would have, only a fifth figure joins them in the next second, a loud voice booming through the corridor and asking what they’re doing.

Draco turns to see Lupin, a frown pulling on the professor’s face. He looks between the three culprits before his gaze flicks back to Draco’s body, still pressed to the wall. “Miss Anderson, please step away from Mr. Malfoy. You too, Mr. Corner.”

The three of them do, and Draco feels a sadistic sort of pleasure at the apprehensive look on their faces. As Lupin steps closer, Draco thinks he can see traces of fear in the Hufflepuff’s eyes.

“Twenty points off your houses, for each of you,” Lupin says. “And you’ll report to my office tonight to further discuss your punishment. Are we clear?”

There’s an echo of _yes, professor_ that comes from the three of them, and then they’re off, scurrying away from the hallway before they can get into any more trouble. Remus waits until their footfalls are out of earshot before approaching Draco, setting him free from his bind with a soft murmur and wave of his wand.

“What happened?” he asks, giving Draco a moment to right himself.

“Nothing.”

“Mr. Malfoy,” says Remus. “I know you’re not very fond of me, but you do need to tell me. I can’t punish them appropriately otherwise.”

Draco sighs and looks at Lupin with a blank face. “My aunt killed one of their relatives,” he says, matter of fact. “They’re not very pleased about it.”

“Ah.”

“Yes,” Draco replies. “ _Ah_.”

Lupin’s lips are pursed, his expression thoughtful. Draco stares, waits for permission to leave, but it doesn’t come. Instead, Lupin says, “Follow me.”

Draco doesn’t want to, but he doesn’t feel as if he’s got a choice. Stifling a sigh, he walks behind Lupin, follows him through unfamiliar corridors until they pull up to an office door. Lupin holds it open, nodding as he steps through, and Draco does sigh when he realises he’s been brought to Lupin’s quarters.

“Take a seat,” Lupin offers, and Draco does, an uncomfortable feeling blossoming in his stomach—something like dread. “I want to talk to you about your essay,” Lupin continues, settling down behind the desk.

Draco’s brow furrows with confusion. “What about it?”

“It was…” Lupin trails off, trying to think of the right word. “Inapplicable.”

“Inapplicable,” Draco repeats, his confusion obvious. “Why?”

“Your primary focus was on the Dark Arts,” Remus says. He sits forward, his hands folding together atop the desk. “Not the defence to. Your knowledge is impeccable, but you provided an inadequate evaluation of the question presented.”

Draco stiffens at the statement, his nails digging into the wood of his seat. He looks at Lupin, tries to think of something to say. “You’re failing me?”

“No,” Lupin answers, looking surprised. “No, I—I want you to do it again.” He reaches to the stack of parchment sitting on the desk, fingers rifling through the pile until he finds Draco’s marked essay. “You obviously know the material, Draco. I know it’s difficult, after… what happened, but you’ll excel if you can shift your focus.”

Draco takes the offered paper, barely looking at its contents before shoving it into his bag. The uncomfortable feeling has escalated from mild dread to something closer to panic, and he wants to leave before it worsens. “When do you want it?”

“Next lesson.”

Draco nods, swallows. “Is that all?”

Remus looks as if he wants to continue, as if he’s got more to say, but he doesn’t say it. Draco supposes his unease is obvious; that Lupin is taking pity on him.

“That’s all,” Remus sighs, sitting back in his chair. “You can go.”

Draco nods again, barely murmuring a goodbye as he stands from his seat and rushes toward the door.

 

 

**february.**

“You and Professor Snape. Real or not real?”

Draco turns at the sound of the voice, eyebrow arching when he catches sight of Astoria. “What?”

“You _know_.” Astoria says the words slowly, leans towards Draco with a grin on her face. She spares the library a glance, makes sure only Draco can hear when she says, “Everyone thinks you’re shaggi—”

 _“Not real,”_ Draco says, harsher than necessary.

“Oh.” Astoria sits back, slumps her shoulders like the fun’s been drained from the conversation. “Really?”

“Really.”

“Okay, but do you want—”

“ _Astoria._ ”

“What? I know you had that massive crush on him in your s—”

“I did not have a—”

“Don’t lie, Draco,” Astoria exclaims, wincing at the look Madame Pince sends their way. “I’m just saying,” she continues, voice a murmur. “I don’t care if you are, so if you want to talk about it…”

“Can we drop the subject?” Draco asks, eyes focused on the half-finished essay in front of him. “I’ve more important things to worry about.”

“Fine,” Astoria sighs. “What about you and Potter, then?”

“What about me and Potter?”

“People are saying you’re friends, now,” she says. “Something about a handshake.”

Draco wants to snort, wants to roll his eyes and scoff all at once. He doesn’t, though; chooses instead to simply look at Astoria over the edge of his textbook. “He came to talk to me about my father,” he says. It’d hardly been a friendly conversation, he thinks. Had barely scratched civil. “That’s all.”

Astoria hums. “What abo—”

“Astoria,” Draco says, cutting her off before she can continue. “No more gossip. I promise—if anything actually happens, you’ll be the first to know.”

“Fine,” Astoria says again, shifting to sit closer. “But you’re helping me with my potions homework.”

 

 

**march.**

“Lucius Malfoy’s been released from Azkaban.”

Severus looks up at the words, sees Minerva standing in the doorway of the staff room, the Daily Prophet held in one hand and an annoyed looking Dedalus Diggle behind her.

“Finally?” Remus asks, putting the essay he’d been marking to the side. “I thought the Ministry might’ve changed their mind, with all the back and forth.”

“The Ministry ought to have changed their mind,” Diggle exclaims, walking through the room with long strides. He takes his seat at his usual chair, fingers fiddling with his work robe. “One of the worst of the bunch.”

Severus snorts at that. He knows Lucius has a great capacity for cruelty—knows there’s a very prominent sadistic streak—but one of the worst? Hardly. In Severus’ opinion, Lucius is a great strategist, a good leader. He likes keeping his hands clean, likes making people do his dirty work for him. He was never like Bellatrix—Severus has scarcely seen him cause pain for no other reason than to cause pain. If there was no foreseeable benefit to the violence, Lucius would step back and watch as the others put on a show.

They had that in common.

“Something funny?” Diggle asks, and Severus wants to sigh.

They’d never got on, he and Dedalus; not even during the Order meetings. Dedalus had always been of the belief that there was no redemption after taking the Mark, and his contempt for any and all followers of the Dark Lord had extended to Severus. Severus had almost begged Minerva not to hire him as the new transfigurations professor.

“Not at all.”

“I suppose you’re glad he’s out,” Diggle continues, bitterness laced through every word. “Give him the Kiss, I say. He ought to rot.”

“Thank you for the unwanted opinion,” Severus says. “Perhaps you should consider adding to your limited knowledge before offering another.”

Diggle opens his mouth to bite back, but his response is cut off by Minerva, who calmly asks, “What _do_ you think, Severus?”

Severus sighs, thumb brushing the corner of the parchment he holds in his hand. “Lucius spent most of the war either in Azkaban or without a wand,” he says. “He hardly had the opportunity to do half of the things they’ve claimed.”

“He was at the Battle,” Diggle says. “You’re telling me he fought without a wand? Rubbish!”

Severus sends him an even stare, resists the urge to sigh again. “He and Narcissa were both without wands,” he tells him. “They were there only for their son. Believe me, neither are normally that moronic.”

Diggle looks as if he wants to argue, but Minerva places a hand on his shoulder, gives him a stern look. “Enough, Dedalus,” she says. “Didn’t you hear their shouting?”

“It doesn’t mean he deserves freedom,” Diggle says. “He’s still a Death Eater.”

“A Death Eater who’s paying for a large amount of the repairs.” Minerva sighs, looks towards Severus. “Mr. Malfoy will have to wait to see him,” she says. “We’re only allowing students home for ill relatives.”

“He’ll manage,” Severus deadpans. He stands from his seat, adjusts his robes so they fall around him comfortably, cloak billowing out behind him. “Now, if you’ll excuse me,” he says. “I’ve got a class to teach.”

He barely makes it out into the hallway before he feels a body behind him. He’s not surprised when it’s Lupin.

“What?” he asks harshly, not allowing Remus to announce himself.

“I thought we could have tea later.”

“We don’t have tea, Lupin.”

“Only because you never allow it,” Remus says. And then, “Draco must be happy about the news.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Severus says. He hadn’t spoken to Draco since their class the day before, but he suspects Narcissa has sent another letter with information on the recent development. If not, then he’d likely seen it in the paper.

“No? You keep your chats for late nights, then?”

Severus sighs, loud and annoyed. “Must you always go on about this?”

“Yes.”

“Nothing untoward is going on between me and Mr. Malfoy,” Severus snaps. It has to be the third or fourth time Lupin has brought it up, and his patience is wearing rather thin.

“Why not?”

Severus stops in the middle of the corridor, turns to look Remus in the eye. “What?”

“Why not?” Remus repeats, shoulders lifting in a light shrug. “It’s obvious that he likes you.”

“Perhaps it has not occurred to you,” Severus says unkindly, “but Draco is my student.”

“He wouldn’t be, under normal circumstances.”

“That doesn’t change anything. It is still against the school rules.”

“When have you ever cared about the school rules?”

“Lupin—”

“Oh, fine,” Remus huffs. “I’m just saying, you ought to realise what’s in front of you.”

“Please refrain from saying anything to me at all.”

Remus rolls his eyes at him, and the action is somewhere between fond and irritated. “I’ll see you later, Severus,” he says, turning to the direction of his own classroom.

Severus shakes his head once he’s out of sight, like he’s trying to remove their conversation from the forefront of his mind, and continues on his way down to the dungeons.

He definitely doesn’t spend the lesson thinking of what Lupin had said.

-

Nor does he think of it later, when Draco comes by that night.

It’s just past dinner, the student curfew steadily approaching. Severus ought not to let him in, but with the news of Lucius’ release still fresh, he can’t bring himself to turn him away.

“Did you hear?” Draco asks as he’s allowed inside, and Severus can hear the traces of happiness in his tone, can hear the excitement—more prominent than Severus has heard in a long while. It brings the faintest of smiles to his face.

“I did.” It’d been impossible not to, not with half the staff and student body talking about it. “Should I offer my congratulations?”

“That’s rather dramatic,” Draco says, walking through Severus’ office to settle down in his usual seat. “So, yes.”

Draco smiles as he says it, but it disappears a moment later, his expression morphing to something hesitant. Severus arches a brow as he settles in his own seat, waiting for Draco to speak.

“Can I—” He cuts himself off with a small shake of his head, pauses for a second before trying again. “I wanted to know if—”

“You aren’t allowed home until Easter.”

Draco’s brow furrows with confusion at his words. “No—I. Not that,” he says. “Mother told me to wait. Apparently Father has injuries that need to be taken care of.”

The last part is said with a grimace, and Severus can only imagine how bad the damage is. The information is hardly surprising—everyone knows Azkaban’s Aurors can be just as bad as its inmates.

“Then what?”

“Were you ever in Azkaban?”

Draco all but blurts the question out, and Severus has to mask his surprise. Of all the things he’d been expecting, that certainly wasn’t one of them.

“Briefly,” he answers. “Why?”

Draco’s hands fiddle in his lap, like a nervous habit, and Severus pretends not to notice. “What was it like?” he says. “After.”

Severus thinks back to the first war. Dumbledore had been quick to get him out, but he can still recall the weeks spent imprisoned, still has vivid memories of both the time inside and the time after. It had hardly been ideal.

“Irritating,” he says eventually, because it had been. He remembers the reporters, the countless articles, the unwanted opinions. Owls had been at his door almost every day, their messages far from cheery, and it’d almost drove him mad. All he’d wanted was to be left alone, but no one had allowed him any peace.

 _A rather familiar experience_ , he thinks. The thought is only slightly bitter.

“That’s it?”

It’s another unexpected answer, and Severus takes a moment to consider Draco. He trails his gaze over Draco’s body, notes the way it’s tensed, the way he’s turned away from the conversation. His body language is withdrawn, tentative.

All at once, it clicks into place.

“You’re worried,” Severus says. It’s not a question.

“Weren’t you?” Draco shoots back, not waiting for an answer. “My mother receives death threats on a weekly basis, and my father’s trial had protesters present. I hardly doubt the general public are going to be very welcoming.”

Draco’s tone suggests his words aren’t a big deal, but he doesn’t meet Severus’ eye as he talks. Severus gets the impression that he’s trying to hide how concerned he really is.

“It’s okay to be scared,” he says, expecting the glare Draco gives him in return.

“I’m not sca—”

“Draco.” Draco’s mouth shuts at the sound of his name, and Severus waits until he finally looks up before continuing. “I’m not going to lie to you,” he says. “People are not pleased with the outcome of your father’s trial, nor yours. There is a semblance of peace here only because the Headmistress will not allow anything else. That safety net will disappear when you leave.”

Draco sighs, the exhale long and loud. “This is why no one comes to you for comfort,” he tells him.

Severus snorts. “A wise choice,” he says, but his serious demeanour returns a moment later. “You can handle yourself, Draco. Ignore it and people will move on.”

Draco’s expression is full of scepticism, his voice a deadpan when he speaks. “Like they’ve moved on with you,” he says, and Severus stifles the urge to snort again.

“That’s different,” he says. “I was a spy. I pissed off everyone.”

Draco’s response is a quick, quiet burst of laughter, and Severus watches as the tension in his shoulders finally drains, the topic of conversation switching to the latest _Potions Today_ article.

By the time he’s standing and talking about getting back to the dorm, Severus is surprised to discover that he’d much rather Draco stay.

 

 

**april.**

“You’ll be okay on your own?”

Draco smiles at his mother’s concern. “Yes,” he says, for what must be the tenth time.

Narcissa still looks worried, but she lets it go with a soft sigh, steps forward to press yet another kiss to Draco’s forehead. Her fingers graze over his cheekbone, her touch delicate. “Stay out of trouble,” she tells him, and Draco smiles again.

“I will,” he assures her. “Don’t worry.”

It’s a useless thing to say, he knows, but he’s not sure what else he should tell her. Stepping back, he pockets his shrunken trunk, looks to where his father stands on the other side of the room.

“Be careful,” Lucius says, and it’s as close to an _I love you_ as Draco’s going to get. He nods, gives them both one last look before turning on his heel and Apparating to Platform 9 and 3/4.

He’s there earlier than he needs to be, but he rather prefers it that way. It gives him the opportunity to settle down in an empty train compartment without the stressful bustle of the later crowd; allows him to finish off the holiday work he’d neglected in favour of spending time with his parents.

By the time Theo pulls the compartment door open, he’s almost caught up with his Charms work, the textbook open in his lap.

“How was it?” Theo asks, pulling the door shut again before taking the seat across from Draco.

Draco sighs. “Things have been better,” he says. It’s an understatement, definitely, but Draco doesn’t feel like delving into details.

Theo snorts, the sound humourless. “Yeah,” he says with a grimace, and Draco supposes that he’s the most likely to understand. That his experience is the most similar. “Your parents fighting as much as mine?”

Draco laughs, the sound a breathy huff. “Oh, yeah,” he says, and Theo grins, too, like it’s actually something to laugh about.

Draco can’t help it, really. His parents _had_ fought—the kind of arguing that went on all day but stopped at night, as if the both of them were too worn out to not have those few hours of solace, those hours of peace. He’d tried to talk to them about it, but it was always the same response, the same sharp snap that he ought not to get involved. By the end of it, there was little else he could do but laugh.

“It doesn’t make sense,” Theo says. “I mean—fuck. You’d think they’d be happy, now.”

Draco hums his agreement, thumb brushing the edge of his Charms text. He’d thought the same—had thought the tension he’d seen build throughout the war would vanish with the Dark Lord, and yet it hadn’t. If anything, it’d only grown worse.

It was always the same argument, the same accusation. His mother would snap that Lucius had ruined their lives, that if it weren’t for her they’d all be left to rot, that he ought to bloody apologise, and his father never would—or if he did, it was never good enough.

“Pent up frustration,” Draco murmurs, his shoulder lifting in a half-shrug.

Theo’s response is cut off by a call of _three incoming_ , and Draco looks up just in time to see Astoria, Blaise, and Daphne, stumble into the compartment. He slides over to the side, lets Astoria kiss his cheek as she sits next to him.

“How was it?” she asks, her voice low so only Draco can hear.

Draco sighs. “It could’ve been worse,” he tells her, and the look she gives him in return lets him know that the past week is something they’ll be discussing at length later on.

“Millicent’s not far behind,” Daphne tells them, leaving the compartment door open as she sits, Blaise squishing in beside her. She turns to Draco once she’s settled, asks, “You see Pansy?”

Draco hums, starts to recount the half-day they’d spent together. It’d been nice, to see her again. He doesn’t blame her for not returning—had almost done the same thing himself—but he does miss her. “She seems okay,” he says at the end, and as the rest of them start to retell their own holidays, Draco supposes that _okay_ is something to be happy about.

-

Severus makes his way down from dinner later than usual, his footsteps echoing through the halls. Minerva had kept both him and Lupin back to discuss the upcoming memorial plans, and the reminder had done little else but irritate him.

Turning the corridor, he catches a glimpse of pale blonde hair, finds Draco’s familiar figure standing mere meters from his office door. He’d been envisioning his bed before this, had been fantasising about a decent rest, but the thoughts vanish as the sight—are replaced by curiosity, anticipation.

He sees Draco turn at the sound of footsteps, meets his gaze with a raised eyebrow. Draco has a bag in his hand, the material suede and expensive. He stops walking, waits for Severus to catch up, for him to step within hearing distance before speaking.

“I know it’s late,” Draco starts, but Severus waves the words away.

“It’s alright,” he tells him, and it’s only half a lie. He’s tired, yes, but the thought of Draco’s company after a week apart isn’t entirely horrible.

“It’s just—” Draco cuts off, lifts the bag in his hand. “We cleaned out the Manor,” he explains, “and you had stuff there.”

Severus takes the bag from him as they enter his office, motions for Draco to follow him through the back and into his personal quarters. Draco does, settling down on the plush lounge while Severus puts the bag to the side, and Severus is hit with the question of when this became regular—of when the sight of Draco in his living quarters become something normal.

He tries to pinpoint a moment but comes up short. He’s not entirely sure if that should trouble him or not.

“I imagine there was a lot to remove.”

“You don’t even want to know,” Draco tells him, like the experience had been utterly traumatising. Severus smirks as he takes the seat beside him. “Dolohov’s mattress was stained with blood. _Blood._ Father threw it out.”

“It sounds as if you’ve had an interesting week,” Severus says, mildly amused, and Draco groans softly. He leans into Severus’ side, their upper arms squishing together, his head almost resting against Severus’ shoulder, and Severus doesn’t push him away.

“Perplexing, more like,” he murmurs. “I didn’t realise how much of a mess it’d be.”

Severus hums, though he does not share the sentiment. He’d learnt what the Ministry was capable of years ago, when his own home had been turned inside out. “And your parents?”

“Complicated,” Draco tells him, and that doesn’t shock Severus, either. Draco exhales slowly, his expression hesitant when he speaks next. “Father’s not pleased with you, you know.”

Again, the words are hardly a surprise. Severus had not deluded himself with thoughts of Lucius taking his betrayal well; knows from the first fall of Voldemort that his response would not be pleasant.

“I don’t imagine he would be,” he says to Draco. “He was never very fond of turncoats.”

“He’ll come around,” Draco murmurs. “Probably.”

Severus smiles faintly, the act more sardonic than anything else. He doesn’t particularly care for Lucius’ opinion, these days. “And you?”

Draco had never mentioned his role in the war, and Severus hadn’t wanted to ask, but he does wonder; knows that Draco must feel some way about it. Now that it was on the table…

“My opinion of what you did?” Draco asks for clarification, looking up at him from the corner of his eye. He shrugs lightly at Severus’ nod. “I can’t make up my mind,” he says honestly. “I wasn’t surprised when I found out.”

“But?” Severus asks, because he can hear it coming, knows that there’s more to Draco’s answer.

“But I trusted you,” Draco admits. He rolls his head against the back of the lounge, looks aimlessly at the wall. Severus watches, waits. “It felt like a personal betrayal,” Draco says after a long pause. “Which is stupid, because I never expected you to be completely honest with me.”

Severus looks at him, silent. He doesn’t know what to say to that. He supposes a normal person would apologise, but he isn’t sorry for lying. Had Draco known what he was doing, had he been aware of Severus’ work for the Order… it would have done more harm than good. Would have only put Draco further at risk.

“Are you angry?” he asks, because he imagines that he would be. That anyone would be.

“I was,” Draco says, and there is something in his voice, Severus thinks. A buried anger, a harsh truth. “When the truth first came out, I was—you—” He cuts off with a sigh, pushes his hair from his face. “Part of me wished you really had died.”

Severus raises his brow at the words, somewhat surprised to hear them, to hear the honesty in them. He looks at Draco, and Draco turns to look back, something apologetic in his eyes.

“I just—” he starts, stops. “I kept thinking of how much easier it would have been if you’d said something. That my task wouldn’t have been half as stressful if I could have just _told_ you I didn’t want to do it.”

“It would have only endangered you.”

“I know,” Draco says before he can add anything. “I know. When the initial anger faded, I realised it would have been idiotic to tell anyone, let alone me, but at first…” He trails off, slumps back against the couch. “I’m not angry anymore.”

“No?”

“No,” Draco repeats, and he’s laughing quietly. “After everything the Dark Lord did to my family, did you really expect me to be?”

Severus remains silent at that. Truthfully, he hadn’t known what to think, hadn’t dared to hope. He’d never considered Draco as _committed_ to the cause as Lucius, or— _thank Merlin_ —Bellatrix, but there’d always been the possibility, the risk of Draco walking away from the war’s outcome disappointed. To have that worry put to rest is something of a blessing.

“If anything, I’m glad,” Draco continues. He speaks softly, like the words are a secret. “I… never wanted him to win. Not once I saw what he was like.”

The words ignite Severus’ curiosity; make him think back to the first war, to his own schoolboy naivety. He continues to stare at Draco, wonders what had been the tipping point—what act had made him come to his senses. Wonders if it was something done to him or something he’d had to witness.

He doesn’t ask, tucks the question away for later. Conversation with Draco in this area is tricky, he knows. Even a year later, the memories are still too fresh, too raw. The wrong question at the wrong time has every chance of setting off a full-blown panic attack, and although now does not seem like the wrong time, there is a heaviness to the air which leads Severus to believe otherwise, is a tension which suggests that this conversation is about _them_ —not others and their actions, or each other as individuals.

Draco turns to him when the silence stretches, a pale eyebrow lifting. His eyes shimmer in the low light, the flicker of a candle visible in the reflective grey. “Were you expecting a different answer?”

“I wasn’t expecting anything,” Severus answers, and it’s honest—honest in the way these conversations call for; honest like one can be only in the dark, late at night. 

“And now that you’ve heard it?” Draco’s asks, voice soft. 

“There are worse answers,” Severus tells him, and Draco responds with a breathy snort.

“I suppose that’s good enough,” he says.

 

 

**may.**

Draco’s enjoyment of Hogsmeade weekends had declined over the years, but when Astoria asks him to accompany her in early May, he can’t say no. Part of him wants to—the one year anniversary of the Final Battle has just past, and Draco is not naïve enough to believe that his presence will be without controversy—but Astoria is a force to be reckoned with. She shoots down all of his worries, assures him that it will be fine, and when he still seems reluctant, she drags him by the hand.

“I hope I’m not interrupting your precious alone time,” she says, her arm linking with his as they move amongst the student body, the lot of them walking across the grounds and toward the gates. She’s got a small grin on her face, her eyes twinkling under the Spring sunlight. “I’m sure Professor Snape will understand.”

Draco rolls his eyes at her, has to refrain from shaking his head. He’d known it would start—it always does, these days—but he’d hoped she’d give it a rest. “Must you?”

“Yes.”

“You’re incorrigible.”

“And you’re cute when you’re flustered.” Astoria’s grin widens even as Draco glares at her, his arm tugging as if to pull itself from her grip. “And your blush is adorable.”

Draco sighs. “I h—”

 _“—ate me_. Yes, yes, I know. That’s old news.” She winks at him, her hands tightening around his forearm to keep him in place. “Deny it all you want, Malfoy, but you like him and you know it. You wouldn’t care about what I have to say if you didn’t.”

Draco stifles yet another sigh. Deep down, he knows she’s right, knows that there is a truth to the teasing, that there has been something brewing between him and Severus for a long time—perhaps longer than even Astoria realises. He just hasn’t wanted to acknowledge it, to hope for it. He doubts that Severus would ever allow it to happen; to fantasise of it seems like playing with fire.

“I don’t understand why you’re so bothered by it,” Astoria continues, not caring that he hasn’t replied. “I mean—is it the age? I don’t really think that matters. My first crush was your mum.”

“That’s not a visual I wanted.”

“What?” Astoria exclaims, grinning. They’ve reached Hogsmeade now, a rush of students parting each way. The two of them walk through the crowd, no particular destination in mind. “She’s a pretty lady.”

“I’m telling her you said that,” Draco says, pleased when it makes Astoria’s face heat up.

Earth crunches under their boots, the area calmer now that most have entered their store of choice. The two of them continue to walk, Astoria’s hand tightening around his arm as they pass the Three Broomsticks. Draco barely looks—can’t bring himself to enter it, not after everything that had happened.

“Honeydukes?” Astoria suggests, changing the subject. “I want more sugar quills.”

Draco follows her lead, winding through groups of fellow classmates until they reach the familiar shop. They squeeze past those milling near the entrance and walk the store’s floor, collecting all kinds of sugary sweets and dropping them into a shared bag. Draco arches a brow when Astoria drops six different types of sugar quills amongst their items, but all she does is shrug, something about a sweet tooth being thrown over her shoulder.

They blend into the crowd of Hogwarts students easily, and Draco’s previous uneasiness starts to fade. He allows himself to calm, to relax, to let his guard down.

He realises it’s a mistake only moments later.

They’re in line at the counter, a few people standing in front. Draco can feel someone watching him, can feel the hair at the back of his neck stand up under a heavy gaze. He looks up on instinct, his eyes locking with a dark brown pair. They sit on the face of a man he doesn’t recognise, a face that has hatred embedded in every line; anger in every twist and crease.

Draco looks away first, his stomach tightening as he leans toward Astoria. He asks her if she knows who he is, watches as she turns her head to get a quick look.

“Flume’s brother in law,” Astoria murmurs, her voice quiet. “Ambrosius brought him in to help after his wife died.”

“And how did his wife die?” Draco asks, already dreading the answer.

Rather than respond, Astoria simply grimaces. It’s answer enough for Draco.

He feels the nerves settle back in his stomach, can feel his body prepare itself for a fight. Reaching a hand into his pocket, Draco curls his fingers around the galleons there and passes a small handful to Astoria. It’s more than enough to pay for his share of the items.

Astoria gives him a look, her expression something like sympathy, but Draco just shakes his head. “I’ll wait outside,” he murmurs, stepping past the other customers until he’s through the door, the chill morning air ghosting across his frame.

It becomes apparent rather abruptly that he’s been followed.

“You’ve got some nerve,” comes a gruff voice. A hand reaches out, its fingers curling around his left forearm in an impossibly tight grip and stopping him from stepping away. Draco stills, feels his heartbeat quicken as adrenaline flows through his veins. He hates that it’s mixed with fear.

“Excuse me?”

His answer is a humourless snort, is the grip on his arm tightening. It pulls, forces Draco to turn around—for him to come face to face with the man from the counter.

“Death Eater _scum_ ,” mutters the man. The words are spat, the syllables dripping disdain. Draco’s right hand curls around his wand, just in case. “Showing your face in the village. Who do you think you are?”

He’s not given a chance to answer as the man begins on a rant, his voice accusatory as he lists the damage done by the Dark Lord’s followers. He talks of destruction, of pain, torture, death. Of terror and those behind it. “But you wouldn’t know about that, would ya,” he says, sneering. “Too busy hiding in that mansion of yours. Bet Daddy can’t help you now, huh? Weak little pi—”

“Wilfred!”

Draco starts at the name, both him and the man snapping to look at where it came from. He almost sighs in relief at the sight of McGonagall, at Lupin behind her. McGonagall’s got a harsh look on her face, one that’s traced with anger. It’s a stark difference to the sympathetic, almost sad expression Lupin sports.

“Unhand Mr. Malfoy,” McGonagall says, her mouth in a thin line.

The man—Wilfred, apparently—only glares. “Why should I?” he says, every bit as angry as he was a moment ago. “It’s his fault for being here—walking around like he didn’t help kill us all. There were some good folk who lived ‘ere, my sister included. All gone because this little basta—”

The words cut off as another hand settles just above Wilfred’s, and when Draco looks up, it’s Lupin who’s moved closer. His face is calm, but there’s a fiery glint to his eye—something Draco can’t quite name.

“Let go, Mr. Saltzman,” he says softly.

Saltzman snorts, his gaze no more friendly as it rakes over Lupin’s form. “You stickin’ up for him?” he says. It’s asked with another humourless laugh, the sound airy—bordering on mad. “Typical of a bloody half-breed, eh. Just like the rest o—”

Lupin adds more pressure to his touch just as McGonagall barks another order, her voice harsher now, and Saltzman’s grip finally eases enough for Draco to slip free. As he takes a step back, Draco resists the urge to slip a hand beneath his sleeve and rub at the forming bruise.

“Thank you,” Lupin says, though it’s not at all genuine. Saltzman continues to glare, his eyes burning holes into Draco’s back as he’s steered away. “I’ll take him back,” Lupin tells McGonagall, his head tilting toward the castle, and McGonagall gives a quick nod before approaching Saltzman properly.

Draco gets no say as Lupin’s hand curls around his shoulder, the pressure of his palm urging him back toward the castle. He catches sight of Astoria as they leave, mouths _later_ at her questioning look, and stays silent while he walks back up the pathway.

“We’ve got to stop doing this,” Lupin says, and Draco can tell that it’s an attempt to lighten the mood, but he only glares in response, not saying a word.

Saltzman’s words repeat themselves in his head, and maybe Draco should feel ashamed at what had happened, or embarrassed that _Lupin_ had had to come to his rescue for a second time, but all that’s there is a burning hot anger—is an overpowering rage. His hands are curled in fists at his side, his nails digging into the flesh of his palms. If he unravels them, he’s sure he’ll find blood.

“You have to understand,” Lupin says once they’ve passed through the castle’s gates, “that emotions are running rather high at the moment. I’m sure Saltzman didn’t mean to take it out on you.”

Draco looks at Lupin like he’s an idiot. “He did,” he says, perhaps harsher than he ought to address a professor, but Draco doesn’t care. “Of course he bloody did. You think tha—”

“Draco—”

“I’ve never killed anyone!”

His voice is almost a shout, the statement shutting Lupin up in an instant. Draco stops walking, and Lupin stops, too, turns to look at him properly. They stand in the middle of the grounds, thankfully on their own.

“I’ve never killed anyone,” Draco says again, calmer now. He doesn’t know why he’s saying it, doesn’t know why he’s telling Lupin, of all people, but he almost feels like he has to. Like it’s something he wants him to know. “I—I couldn’t—”

Couldn’t go through with it, Draco wants to say. Couldn’t stomach it, could barely handle the thought of it. He doesn’t, but it’s there, hovering in the space between them.

“I never thought you did,” Lupin tells him, and Draco doesn’t bother trying to decipher if it’s a lie or not. He starts walking again, long strides that make it hard for Lupin to keep up.

“Do you know what they do,” Draco continues, an edge to his voice, “to people who _can’t_ do it? Do you have any idea what—”

He cuts himself off, mouth still moving but no words forming. They’re inside the castle now, a few stray students milling about, and Lupin watches him, concerned.

“I have to go,” Draco says eventually. “I can’t—I need—”

He cuts himself off again, turns abruptly in the direction of the dungeons, and starts to walk. He hears Lupin call his name, but he ignores it, moves down the stairs with an urgent speed.

Familiar walls pass in a blur, the dungeons blending together as he walks a well-known pathway. There’s someone else who calls his name, but Draco ignores them, too—continues on past the Slytherin commons and deeper into the dungeons.

Severus’ door, when Draco gets there, is shut. He pushes it open anyway, too wound up to care about being impolite. Severus isn’t in his office, though he does appear in the doorway leading to his private quarters, an eyebrow arching at Draco’s obviously disgruntled state.

“What happened?” he asks, because it’s clear that something did. He’s calm—calm like Lupin had been, but with none of the annoying delicacy.

“This man—he—” Draco sighs, feels the anger bubble again. It courses through his veins, makes him jittery with adrenaline. “Why do people think it was easy?”

It’s a yell restrained to a muttered sentence; is enough to give Severus some idea of what had occurred. He sighs, waits for Draco to continue.

Draco does, speaking so fast his words mix together. “Do they think is was all fun and games? That we enjoyed it? That we sat around and got each other off in between making plans to ruin lives?” The volume of his voice increases with every sentence, his frustration growing more visible by the second. “Why do they assume the Dark Lord was forgiving to me because I was marked? He _owned_ me, it wasn’t like—”

The thought is cut off as Draco starts to pace the length of Severus’ office, his body moving in quick, long strides. His hands flail as he speaks, his body lined with tension, his chest rising and falling at an increasing pace.

“People keep telling me I had it easy,” Draco says, all but spitting the last word, “but how many times were they tortured? How many times were they hurt until they couldn’t walk? Until they couldn’t do more than lie there and scream? How many times did they have to watch it happen to someone else—to someone they cared about?”

His voice shakes, now, repressed emotions brought to the forefront. Severus stays where he is, not making any move to come forward or comfort him, to answer the questions. It’s something that Draco needs to get out; an outburst he’s going to let him complete.

“People who saw the Manor—they were horrified. But do you think they’ve ever thought of those who lived there? Those who had to participate unwillingly?” Draco looks up, knows that Severus must be able to see the tears in his eyes, the desperation. That he must realise how hard he’s trying to keep it together. “Everyone only thinks about what the Dark Lord made me do, they never think of what he did to _m_ —”

The last word cuts off in the middle, a dry sob catching in Draco’s throat. He runs his fingers through his hair, ignores the slight tremor of his hand, the dried blood on his palm. The anger is still pulsing through him, his heartbeat loud and fast in his own ears. There is more that he wants to say—months’ worth of repressed frustration begging to be let out—but the words won’t come. They’re caught in his throat, buried under the tears he’s trying so hard to keep at bay.

From the doorway comes a sigh, the sound soft compared to Draco’s heavy breathing. It’s not an annoyed sound, just a long exhale, as if Severus is using the time to think of an answer, of something he can say that will comfort Draco.

“Each side likes to believe it is the better one,” he says eventually, his low tone a stark contrast to Draco’s heated yelling. “The difference is that the Dark Lord’s following had no issue admitting their inhumanity, while those who fought against him think theirselves righteous.”

Severus steps away from the door, closer to Draco. His right arm twitches, almost as if he’s going to reach out, beckon Draco forward. “Most of those effected by the Dark Lord will ignore the violence committed in the name of the greater good, and in the same breath condemn those like you or I, or your mother. They will blame you for an act you did not commit and ignore those committed against you.”

“Again with the great comforting skills,” Draco snaps, but the words have none of the bite he’d wanted them to have. Instead it comes out breathy, unstable. Pathetic to his own ears.

Severus’ lips twitch with the hint of a humourless smile. “What I’m trying to say,” he says, “is that there is no point in arguing with these people. They will not admit to their own hypocrisy.”

Draco looks at Severus, his tongue pressing at the back of his teeth, a poor attempt to stop his lips from wobbling. “It’s not fair,” he says, and the words come out a broken whisper.

“I know,” Severus tells him. He says it quietly, almost gently, and it’s those words that do it; those words that break Draco. One second his body is tight with tension, his jaw clenched with the effort of staying in control, and the next his shoulders shake with full-body sobs, the cries tearing out from the back of his throat, his chest heaving with the effort.

An arm curls around his torso, and when Severus pulls him forward, Draco goes. He clings to him, buries his face against Severus’ shoulder, tries to muffle the tears in the fabric of the other man’s robe. Severus does not speak, does not whisper sweet nothings into his ear, does not offer any false promises. Rather, he simply holds him there, lets him cry, lets him have his catharsis without judgement, without making him feel _weak_ for it.

As he cries, Draco can feel Severus’ breath ghost past his cheek, can feel Severus’ lips brush against his hairline in what could almost pass as a kiss. He tries to focus on that, on the steady breathing, the rhythmic heartbeat; tries to match it, to copy it. He has no idea how long they stand there, wrapped around each other; doesn’t actually care to find out. All he knows is that he feels safe here, with his hands clutched in Severus’ robe, with his face pressed to his chest, eyes shut and nose filled with the familiar scent of Severus, of traces of sandalwood and dragon’s blood, of herbs and spices and ingredients long since ingrained into his clothing.

Later, when they do pull apart, it will be reluctant, hesitant. Draco will pull away slowly, will sniff and wipe at his face as Severus moves to retrieve a Calming Potion. Draco will take it, will swallow it in one gulp, will shut his eyes as his body finally relaxes, the day’s events slowly fading to the back of his mind. He will end up falling asleep in Severus’ bed for a second time, will wake late in the evening, face buried in a pillow, his mind much, much calmer than it had been before, and Severus will still be there, will answer his quiet murmur of _can I... I want... never mind_ with a raised eyebrow, will catch his wrist when he stands to leave, will look him in the eye and say _stay._

And Draco will, without any hint of hesitation.

 

 

**june.**

“Who’s the gift for?”

The words are thrown over his shoulder, Remus’ hands reaching for the neatly wrapped present resting on the edge of Severus’ desk. He picks it up, runs his fingers over the smooth, black wrapping paper, his thumb catching on the silver ribbon. It isn’t anything big, looks to be little more than a letter, but Remus can tell it’s been handled with care. That there’s meaning behind it.

Rather than answer the question, Severus sends him a glare, one Remus can feel bore into the back of his head. “Stop touching things,” he snaps, the words followed by a sizzling sound as another ingredient is added to Remus’ Wolfsbane.

“Draco, then,” Remus murmurs, answering his own question. He turns just in time to catch Severus scowl at him, has to bite back a grin. “What’s the occasion?”

Severus looks as if he won’t answer, and Remus wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t, but there’s a quiet sigh after a long pause. “His birthday,” Severus admits. “This coming Saturday.”

Remus hums. “What is it?”

“None of your business.”

Remus rolls his eyes at that, sends Severus a _look_ , one Severus barely understands the meaning of. “This is getting rather ridiculous, is it not?”

There is a minor lull in the Wolfsbane’s preparation. Severus steps from behind his workbench, walks to pull Draco’s gift from Remus’ fingers and place it inside the top draw of his desk. “What now?”

“You and Draco,” Remus starts. “Yo—”

“If you’re going to sa—”

“Don’t cut me off,” Remus snaps, voice sharp enough to have Severus fall silent. He feels a flicker of surprise at himself, a hint of accomplishment when Severus arches a brow, apprehensive. “The two of you have been dancing around each other for months, now,” he says, watches as Severus runs his tongue across his teeth; thinking of a response.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he utters eventually, and Remus scoffs, has to refrain from rolling his eyes a second time.

“Don’t play dumb,” he says. “It doesn’t suit you.”

There is a sigh, the sound tired, frustrated. “What do you want me to tell you, Lupin?”

“I want to know why you refuse to acknowledge this... _thing_ you’ve got with Mr. Malfoy,” answers Remus. In front of him, he can almost see Severus prepare another dismissive response; feels a burst of annoyance that they’re doing this _again_. “He cares for you,” Remus says as a last resort; gets the words in before Severus has the chance to tell him to piss off. “You must know that.”

He sees Severus swallow, sees the fight in him fade to resignation as he sits there, the air heavy with Remus’ words. There is a pause, and then: “I do.”

It falls from his lips quietly, and Remus almost smiles. The truthful answer is refreshing, unexpected. He finds himself hoping that the honesty doesn’t end there, that Severus won’t shy away from the rest of the conversation. It’s one they need to have, he thinks; something that Severus needs to admit.

“Then why haven’t you done anything?” he asks. He doesn’t quite get it. Even with the circumstances, after everything that’s happened... They deserve it, Remus thinks. Love, happiness. It’s been scarce over the past few years. They should be allowed to have this, shouldn’t have to wait for it. “Merlin, Severus. Anyone else would have crumbled months ago.”

“He isn’t ready,” Severus tells him. It comes quickly; like a practiced response, Remus thinks. Like it’s an excuse Severus has said to himself more than once.  

Remus stares at him. “How could you possibly know that?”

The furrow to Severus’ brow deepens, the glare ineffective against Remus, who has long since grown used to Severus’ dour attitude. “Draco does not wait to take what he wants,” Severus tells him, plain and simple. “If he wanted it, if he thought he were ready for it, he would do something about it.”

The words stir something in Remus. A buried anger, perhaps. A deep sadness. Frustration that Severus’ thoughts match those of his younger self, that they describe perfectly what he had felt about Sirius at fifteen, sixteen, seventeen. It’s that exact sentiment, he thinks, that had slowed things down; that had filled years that should’ve been happy with pathetic pining. That sentiment which had caused him so much sadness, so much _regret_. That sentiment which had made him bitter at twenty-one, which had seen a relationship slip through his fingers before it’d ever even begun.

He looks at Severus now; feels his own frustration take over. He does not want his own experiences to be relived. Would not wish the pain upon anyone.

“What if he doesn’t?” Remus asks. His voice is flat—no teasing, no anger. Nothing. “What then? Do you keep waiting? Do you sit back hope that one day he’ll make a move? That he’ll proclaim his love and you’ll get a happily ever after?”

“Lupin—”

 _“No.”_ Remus’ voice has risen now, his tone sharp but shaky—like there’s emotion creeping its way up his throat, like he’s trying desperately to repress it. “How long do you wait?” He stands before Severus, his body tense and rigid. Eyes that are usually soft shine brightly under the low light of the dungeons, their reflection that like fire. “ _Forever?_ What if he never says anything? What if something horrible happens to him—something that takes him from you. What do you do then?”

Memories swarm inside Remus’ mind as he speaks—memories of Sirius, of almost and never and always; of Nymphadora, of fleeting frivolity and the bittersweetness of love in war. Of grief, mourning, loss—of the hollow, inexplicable feeling of watching something he’d known would happen finally play out before his eyes. Of the helplessness found in seeing it happen and still not believing the sight.

Now, when Remus breathes, it’s with an unsteady exhale. His body shakes with an adrenaline induced vibration, his gaze fixed on Severus. He’s surprised to see the flicker of concern that flashes behind black eyes; the emotion concealed so quickly Remus wonders if it was merely a play of the light.

“You’ve no idea what you have until it’s taken away,” Remus finishes softly. “That is a lesson we’ve both learnt, Severus. If you want it, _take it._ ”

Before him, Severus exhales; soft, slow. A moment passes, one beat, another. He walks past Remus without saying anything, returns to his work bench. He reaches for his knife, curls his fingers around the handle, drags the blade across a spare rag. When he does speak, his voice is an impersonal monotone, the words nothing like what Remus had hoped to hear.

“Your potion will be ready in an hour,” Severus says, attention focused back on his work.

Remus watches, stares, scoffs. The quiet huff of air is filled with disbelief, the emotion mirrored in the lines of his face. “Are you se—” he starts, stops, sighs again. He shouldn’t be surprised, he thinks. Should’ve seen it coming.

When it becomes apparent that Severus is not going to offer anything else, that he’s seemingly done with the conversation, Remus turns on his heel, walks toward the hall.

The door slams as he leaves the office.

-

“Ceylon and Murtlap cancel each other’s effects when used in a healing potion, right?”

Severus blinks. Draco stands in the doorway of his office, looking like he’s fresh out of the shower. Pale blond hair is damp, dark against his forehead, his often formal attire replaced with something casual. He’s looking at Severus, waiting for an answer to his question.

“With or without dittany?”

“With.”

“Yes.”

Draco grins, relieved. He walks further into the room, shuts the door behind him. Severus has a fleeting thought that he should tell him no, that it’s too late to be here, that he ought to return to his dorm, but there’s little use. He’s let it happen too many times, now; knows that Draco is hardly going to listen to him.

Besides, he’s not adverse to the company.

“You did well?” he asks. Exam season has officially started, the Potions NEWT taken earlier that evening. Severus had helped monitor it, eyes open for any foul play as all seventh and eighth years moved around their cauldrons, but he has no idea how they went; is not responsible for the marking.

“Of course,” Draco answers. “I’ve been taught well.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere.”

“Untrue,” Draco murmurs. “But it was easy—the Murtlap question was the only issue.”

“Good,” says Severus. “I’m expecting an O.”

“And you’ll get one,” Draco tells him. Severus dares to believe him. He’d always done well, had had a penchant for potions at an early age, if Lucius’ accounts of Draco’s childhood are anything to go by. “I need it, anyway,” Draco continues. “I doubt anyone’s going to be eager to take on a Malfoy as a protégé, not now.”

Severus hums, thinks of the letter wrapped and resting on the mantle in his bedroom. “You still want to pursue medical potion making?” he asks. At Draco’s nod, Severus looks toward the door to his private rooms, turns back to the younger man in front of him. He crooks his finger, beckons Draco to follow. “I know it’s tomorrow,” he starts, “but…”

Severus trails off, plucks the elegantly wrapped envelope from the fireplace. He holds it in his hand, can feel Draco watching, can see the small smile that works its way onto his face.

“You got me a birthday present?”

“Of a sort,” says Severus. He reaches his arm out, offers the item to Draco.

Draco grins as he takes it, wastes no time in finding out what’s inside. He slides his nail across the seal, pulls it open easily. The wrapping paper is put aside, Draco’s eyebrow arching when he spots the contents. Severus watches as thin fingers make quick work of the envelope, as they pull the parchment out. Draco flicks his gaze up for a moment, meets his eye in a silent question before returning it to the page. Turning the letter over in his hands, he scans it, lips moving ever so slightly as he reads the words in his head.

Severus waits, surprised to feel the flicker of nerves. He doesn’t do gifts, can barely remember the last time he’d bought one, and maybe what he’d done doesn’t technically count as a gift, but it is a fairly big assumption; does have the possibility of backfiring.

Draco reaches the letter’s end, looks back up at him. There is shock written on his face. Astonishment. It’s underlined with gratitude, Severus thinks; the thought accompanied by a sense of relief.   

He does not expect arms to wrap around him in the next second, the hold impossibly tight as Draco whispers a thank you into his ear. _“How_?” he asks, pulling back only far enough that he can look at Severus’ face. “I’m not even— _how?_ ”

“Nancy is an old friend,” Severus murmurs. Draco’s arm is wrapped around his neck, the letter clutched in his hand, the parchment brushing the back of Severus’ head. The neat handwriting spells out an opportunity; an offer for an apprenticeship in medicine and advanced potion making, taught by one of England’s best. “We worked together, for a time,” Severus tells him. “I knew her wife better.”

“The Healer?” Draco asks.

Severus nods. “Mind Healer,” he corrects. “They’re working on introducing a level for psychological trauma to St. Mungo’s. I thought it would be good for you.”

“You thought—” Draco starts to say, but stops before he can finish the thought. There’s a smile pulling at his mouth, small and soft and not one Severus has ever seen before. “How did you know that’s what I wanted to do?”

“I do listen when you talk, Draco,” Severus says, and Draco’s face softens.

He still hasn’t moved away. They’re close, like this, close in a way they usually aren’t. Severus can see minor details of Draco’s face, can almost feel the steady rhythm of his breathing. The room’s lighting consists of a string of candles on either wall, the flicker of flames casting half of Draco’s face in shadows, and he looks beautiful like this, Severus thinks. Looks tempting.

In silence, Draco stares up at him. Severus hates that he can hear Lupin’s voice, that Remus’ previous words echo in the back of his head; his advice to _do something_. He hadn’t known what to say at the time, had been taken by surprise at Lupin’s outburst, but now... Now Draco looks like he’s waiting for something, hoping for something, and Severus craves to do only one thing.

The first kiss, when it comes, is an experimental touch of lips; is soft, light. Severus leans forward in a fluid movement, captures Draco’s mouth before he can stop himself. It isn’t much, barely lasts for more than a few seconds, but it’s enough to make him realise how much he truly wants this. Enough to have a flicker of arousal settle in the pit of his stomach.

When they pull apart, Severus can feel Draco’s breath against his skin, is so close that he can see the detail of his eyelashes, dark as they fan across the top of his cheekbones. He almost pulls back, stops it before it can lead to anything more, but then Draco’s eyes are opening, are looking at him, the light grey shining bright. There’s only a split-second pause before Draco leans forward and captures his mouth again. 

The second kiss is different, is desperate. The press of lips is hard and harsh, full of longing; of repressed desire and months’ worth of ignoring the obvious. Severus slides his hands across Draco’s torso, up to cup his face. The skin is smooth beneath his fingertips, the mouth sweet, addictive. They fall apart only when they can no longer hold their breath.

“I—”

Draco shakes his head, cuts him off. “I swear, Severus, if you say you’re sorry—”

“No,” Severus murmurs. “Not sorry.”

“Good.”

Severus breathes slowly, stares at Draco. His lips are wet, red, glistening under the candlelight, his eyes burning with want. Severus swallows, swipes his thumb across Draco’s bottom lip. “You want—”

“Yes,” Draco tells him before he can finish. “ _Circe,_ yes. You idiot. I’ve wanted—I’ve always wanted—” He cuts off, finishes the sentence by kissing him again, his tongue slick and hot as he presses against Severus, clings to him. “I didn’t think you’d allow it,” Draco mumbles, and Severus almost snorts.

He supposes that they have both been idiots, that perhaps he ought to have listened to Lupin sooner. He reaches a hand to his neck, wraps his fingers around Draco’s wrist, and pulls him further into the room, toward the bed.

The transition comes easily. Clothes are removed quickly, the fabric put aside, every moment in between filled with roaming hands, curious lips. Draco, apparently, has a particular fascination with the scar that wraps around his neck. He settles on top of him, straddles him so his knees are on either side of Severus’s thighs, and spends what feels like hours kissing, licking, caressing. Severus lets him; does the same thing back.

By the time he has Draco on his back, Severus is hard and leaking, his cock standing proud against his stomach. His skin is damp, glistening; Draco’s too. He drags his hands across the flat stomach, the subtle muscle, wraps a hand around Draco’s own erection, pulls with slow, torturous movements. Draco arches under his touch, is responsive to everything Severus offers. Moans, whines, whimpers—they all go straight to Severus’ cock, make his body burn with the desire to _take._

It’s been so long, he thinks, since he’d last done this with anyone else, since he’d been able to think about doing it with anyone other than Draco. To finally have that—to have an endless stream of possibilities open to him—is almost overwhelming.

“Roll onto your stomach,” he says, moves off the bed for a minute. Draco does as he’s told, head turned so he can watch Severus rifle through his bedside drawer. He pulls out a vial of clear liquid, returns once it’s in his hand. 

Kneeling between Draco’s legs, Severus drags his hands up over Draco’s thighs, over his arse. The flesh is soft, ample. It’s easy to grab handfuls, to massage him until the skin has turned a soft pink, until Draco is pressing back, begging for something more. Severus does not make him wait, not tonight. He takes hold of the oil, pours it into his palm, lets it drip across the warm flesh of Draco’s arse.

Severus massages it into the skin, the aromatic scent of vanilla filling the room. Below him, Draco whines, tries to rut against the mattress, to create friction. In answer, Severus slides his fingers down Draco’s crevice, brushes a fingertip over his hole, like a promise. The answering gasp almost makes him smile.

“Please,” Draco murmurs, and Severus slips the first finger in, works it in a slow, steady rhythm.

Draco presses against him, wanting more, and one finger quickly becomes two, three. Severus watches the way they disappear into the tight heat, his cock twitching at the thought of taking over. When Draco starts to beg again, a string of _please—ah—please, fuck, oh, Severus_ falling from his lips in a strained, breathy tone, Severus pulls his hand away, grabs the oil to slick his cock.

One hand curls around Draco’s hip, pulls his arse up, the other resting at the base of his own cock. Severus presses forward, brushes the tip over Draco’s opening. “You’re sure?” he murmurs, and Draco turns to look at him over his shoulder. The expression is almost a glare, one that practically screams _get on with it._

Severus does not need to be told twice. He eases himself into the tight heat, mutters a string of obscenities as Draco takes him to the hilt. He’s slow at first, careful and cautious, but it only lasts so long.

He leans over Draco’s body, litters his back with kisses, bites. His hips rock, a groan itching its way up his throat as Draco arches into him. It’s steady for only a moment, the rhythmic thrusting deteriorating until bodies move in awkward, desperate juts, the sounds of skin slapping against skin loud amongst the moans of pleasure, the mumbles of encouragement.

Severus moves a hand to Draco’s cock, wraps his fingers around it once more. He pays special attention to the head, swipes his thumb across the slit, uses the precome there to ease the way. Draco groans beneath him; loud, wanton. He starts to ramble, words mostly intelligible. Severus catches his name in the mess, catches _yes_ and _fuck_ and _close._ He doubles his efforts, slams against Draco’s prostrate with every thrust, works Draco until he’s coming, his body clenching around Severus’ cock as his come splatters across the sheets, his chest, Severus’ hand.

Severus can feel his own orgasm coming, can feel it rising. He pulls out, uses his hand to pump himself once, twice, three times. He comes across the reddened flesh of Draco’s arse, white streaks coating the skin, dripping down his crevice, across the top of his thighs. He groans, long and loud, and rolls to the side, onto his back. Draco follows, leans up to kiss him through heavy, panting breaths.

“That was better than your other present,” Draco mumbles, nestles next to him, and Severus snorts; the noise quiet, breathy. He threads his fingers through Draco’s hair, pushes it back from his face, holds him there.

They need to get cleaned up, he thinks, but for now, he’s happy to wait.

-

An incessant banging wakes Draco the following morning, the noise pulling him from a deep sleep. He groans, rolls toward the body next to him, buries his face against Severus’ chest. A hand settles on the nape of his neck, thumb brushing over the hair there, and Draco groans again; quieter, this time. Content. He wants to cherish this, wants to lie here, in the calm, and fall back asleep.

No luck. The knocking continues, grows louder by the second. “Severus,” Draco whines, props his head up to look at Severus’ face. His eyes are shut, Draco notes, his expression relaxed. “Go tell whoever it is to piss off.”

“It’s Lupin,” Severus murmurs. “We can ignore it.”

Draco’s lips twitch. “As tempting as that may be,” he says, “I don’t think he’s going to leave unless you answer it.”

His words are accompanied by another knock, as if to help prove his point, and Severus is the one who groans, now. His eyes open as he slips out from under Draco, his face a scowl by the time he’s wrapping his nightrobe around his shoulders. Draco sits up on the bed, watches as Severus moves toward his office.

A moment later, Draco can hear Lupin’s voice; low and rushed as he talks to Severus. He slides off the bed, drapes himself in the first bits of clothing he can find—his pants, Severus’ shirt—and walks to the doorway so he can eavesdrop. From what he can hear, Lupin is asking for some sort of form, needs it before he can leave for the weekend.

“You couldn’t have done this yesterday?” he hears Severus ask. Footsteps follow the question, and Draco dares to open the door, to peak through the sliver. He sees Severus stand at his desk, Lupin waiting next to him as he rifles through a stack of parchment.

There is a child, too, sat on Lupin’s hip. He’s got blue hair, Draco notes, his unnaturally green eyes wide with wonder as he scans the room, takes in the vials that line Severus’ walls, the array of ingredients that act as decoration. He looks young—little more than one years old, if that. As Lupin’s hand brushes over the child’s hair, it clicks that he must be Lupin’s son. His cousin’s son.

The child seems to notice him, even if Lupin doesn’t. Their eyes lock, the child’s face splitting into a grin as he sees Draco. Draco’s eyes widen as the hair atop his head switches from blue to pale blonde, the colour matching that of his own. The child’s eyes change too, the bright green fading to a pale blue, almost a grey; not quite a match but close enough. He lets out a little giggle, arm outstretched over Lupin’s shoulder as he waves at Draco.

The noise gains Lupin’s attention. Draco steps back, tries to shut the door before he can be seen, but it’s a futile effort. He can hear Lupin’s voice say _was that…_ , can hear Severus’ directly after.

“Draco,” Severus says with a sigh. “Come out.”

Draco pushes the door open, leans against the frame. He smiles awkwardly, can’t bring himself to look directly at Lupin’s surprised face. “Sorry?” he offers, but Severus only shakes his head.

“You couldn’t wait?”

“I wanted to listen.” Draco says it with a shrug, and the child giggles again; terribly amused by all the adults. Lupin adjusts him on his hip, his surprise morphing to amusement as he looks between the two of them.

“Well, this is interesting,” he murmurs. “Draco, this is Teddy. Teddy, Draco.”

The child, at the sound of his name, gargles; his arm reaching out to wave again. Draco lifts his hand to mirror it, the act awkward, almost embarrassed. “Hello,” he says slowly, and the child spews more nonsense.

Remus clears his throat, sends Severus a pointed look. “I told you so,” he says, and Draco’s brow furrows, confused.

Severus sighs again, louder this time. “Leave,” he tells Remus, but Lupin shakes his head.

“Is this why…” he waves a hand at Severus’ casual attire, leaves the sentence unfinished. “And that,” he says, points toward a bite mark on Severus’ collarbone, the bruise barely visible beneath the nightrobe. “Really, Severus, you let him give you a hickey?” he asks. “What are we, fifteen?”

Draco can feel his cheeks heat at the words, gets an overpowering urge to flee. He doesn’t; can’t. Not in the middle of a conversation.

Severus sends Lupin a cold look. “You have your form,” he mutters. “Now get out.”

Remus hums. “You probably want to go another round, right?”

“ _Lupin.”_

Remus is grinning even as Severus glares at him. He turns to Draco, says, “I expect you to still study for your exam on Monday.” His spare hand curls around Teddy’s ear, holds his head close against his chest. “Sex isn’t grounds for an extension, I’m afraid.”

The words ignite an odd mix of amusement and embarrassment in Draco. He feels the urge to grin despite himself; can’t stop the small smirk that flickers across his face. “Of course, Professor,” he says, smirk widening when Severus sends him a look that may as well say _don’t encourage it._

He murmurs a soft _what?,_ his shoulder lifting in a light shrug. Severus shakes his head, turns back to Lupin and points toward the door. “Out,” he says, for the third time. “Before I force you.”

Teddy, Draco notices, grins at the threat, his smile matching that of his father. Draco half expects Lupin to ignore the order once more, but instead he turns to leave; is seemingly aware of Severus’ limits. He throws a farewell over his shoulder, turns back to say something as he steps out into the hall, but gets cut off as Severus slams the door in his face.

He turns back to Draco after, runs a hand across his tired face, pushes the hair away from his eyes. “Loopy Lupin really was an appropriate nickname,” he says, and Draco thinks he can see a hint of a smirk.

“It could have been worse.” He moves closer to Severus, wraps his arms around the older man’s neck, happy when Severus allows him to. He pulls him forward, presses his mouth against Severus’ gently. “He could have run away yelling.”

Severus hums. “He won’t tell,” he murmurs.

“No? Is that what he meant by ‘I told you so?’”

Severus offers a minute nod. “He’s been bringing it up for months,” he tells Draco. “Won’t shut up about it.”

“Astoria’s the same,” Draco says. He runs his hand across Severus’ chest, slips it beneath the opening of his robe. The skin beneath is warm, scarred. He trails his fingers down, until they hook in the waistband of Severus’ pants. “Worse, I imagine. But maybe they had a point.”

“Hm?”

“Yes,” Draco confirms. Severus’ own hands settle on his waist, brush over his hips, and _yes_ , Draco thinks again. They should’ve done this months ago. “Lupin definitely has.”

“Does he?”

Draco leans forward, hums. It’s soft and breathy, warm against Severus’ lips. “Another round doesn’t sound so bad.”

Severus smirks. “Insatiable imp,” he murmurs, and Draco dips his hand past the waistband, curls it around Severus’ hardening cock.

“It _is_ my birthday,” he says, presses a kiss to the corner of Severus’ mouth. “You have to spoil me.”

Severus catches his wrist, pulls his hand back. “Brat,” he mutters, but he does pull Draco back toward the bed. “As long as Lupin doesn’t find out he got his way.”

Draco snorts softly, the noise stifled as Severus kisses him again, hands reaching to push his shirt off Draco’s shoulders. All thoughts of Remus Lupin vanish from both their brains as they fall back into bed, their attention focused only on each other.

**Author's Note:**

> The almost-ending:  
> “So what’s his dick like?”  
>  _“Astoria.”_  
>  \----  
> Thank you for reading! Any kudos/comments/kind words are greatly appreciated!


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